













































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































HALF HOURS 


OF 

ENGLISH HISTORY. 


FROM THE ROMAN PERIOD TO THE 
DEATH OF ELIZABETH. 


SELECTED AND EDITED BY 



CHARLES KNIGHT. 




LONDON: 

FREDERICK WARNE AND 


BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 


NEW YORK : SCRIBNER, WELFORD AND CO. 





C 0., 









ADVERTISEMENT. 


“Half-Hours of English History,” although forming a Companion to the 
“Half-Hours with the best Authors,” differs in several particulars from the plan 
of that Work. 

1. Although the articles, taken on an average, will each furnish reading for about a 
Half-Hour, they cannot, from the nature of the work, be so arranged as to supply con¬ 
tinuous reading for every day and week of the year. 

2. They are not selected as specimens of the excellence of style, although many 
articles are necessarily taken from those who may be included amongst “ the best 
Authors”; but chiefly as affording a succession of the more graphic parts of English 
History, chronologically arranged. 

The Editor was led to the conception of his plan, from the consideration that the 
portions of History upon which general readers, and the young especially, delight to 
dwell, are those which tell some story which is complete in itself, or which furnish some 
illustration which has a separate as well as a general interest. 

This Yolume, which extends from the Roman period to the end of the reign of 
Elizabeth, is, with some few exceptions, necessarily drawn from modern sources. The 
early Chroniclers tell so much that is fabulous or conflicting, that they afford little 
assistance. But as we approach the period when History becomes more exact—when 
actual observers—such as Froissart and Clarendon,—relate the scenes they have wit¬ 
nessed with the spirit which always belongs to real impressions—and philosophical 
annalists such as Bacon and Camden draw from authentic documents or vivid traditions 
—we shall find ample materials in the original sources. In such as these we have to 
search for narratives that have charms rarely found in any historical digest. Beyond 
tliesp, we have the Memoir-writers, and the Auto-biographers, in whose pages we have 
those pictures of manners without which History is too often a record of court intrigues 
and aimless wars. 

The principle which lias guided the introduction of Dramatic Scenes, whether original 
or selected, is indicated at page 93. 

The Editor has to request the indulgence of any living author, or any proprietor of 
Copyright, from whose stores he has selected without permission—but always with due 
acknowledgment. His respect for the rights of literary property will always prevent 
him abusing the indulgence upon which he has thus presumed. 























. 




























. 

■ 















CONTENTS, 


BOOK i. 

The Roman Period. 


Page 

1. Caesar’s Invasion of Britain 
5. Cymbeline 

15. The Invasion of Claudius . 
18. Boadicea 

22. Scene from Bonduca, a 
Tragedy . 

26. The Druids 
30. Severus . 

33. Persecution of Diocletian : 
Alban 

36. The last Romans 

37. Silchester 


BOOK II. 


Dion Cassius. 

Shaks#>ere. 

Milton. 

Xiphiline. 

Beaumont & 

Fletcher. 

C. Knight. 
Xiphiline. 

Bede. 

Bede. 

C. Knight. 


Anglo-Saxon Period. 


*5. 

48. 

50. 

55. 

58. 

60. 

62. 

72. 

74. 

78. 

83. 

86 . 

89. 

93. 

99. 

104. 

111 . 

113. 

116. 

119. 

120 . 

128. 


x'he Coming of the Saxons. 
Destruction of the Roman ) 
Civilization . . ) 

The Heptarchy 
The Wars of Mercia 
TheConversion of Ethelbert 
The Conversion of Edwin. 


Caedmon, the Poet 
Alfred . 

Alfred the Fugitive 
Athelstan 
Edwin the Fair 
Edgar and Elfrida 
The Danish Power 
Canute . 

Earl Godwin . 

The Banishment of Godwin 
Harold in Normandy 
The Battle of Hastings 
Bayeux Tapestry . 

Battle Abbey 
Speeches before the Battle ) Earner 
of Hastings . . ) 

Industry of the Anglo- j c Knight . 

baxons • • • 

Chronological List of the 
Saxon Kings 

Chn nology of English History 


Burke. 

Guizot. 

Palgrave. 
Joa. Baillie. 
Bede. 

Camden. 

Bede, and 
Alfred. 
Mao Farlane. 
S. Knowles. 
Thierry. 

H. Taylor. 
Hume. 

Burke. 

Mac Farlane. 
Rev. J. White. 
Lappenberg. 
Rev. J. White. 
Mac Farlane. 
C. Knight. 

C. Knight. 


Nicolas. 


BOOK III. 

William I. to Henry III. 


Page 

135. 

137. 

139. 

141. 

145. 

147. 

150. 

156. 

157. 
160. 

161. 

163. 

168. 

173. 

174. 
177. 

179. 

180. 

182. 

187. 

189. 

191. 

194. 

196. 

199. 

203. 

208. 

212 . 

215. 

217. 

221 . 

226. 

229. 

235. 

237. 


The Conqueror’s March to I 
London . . . ) 

The Coronation of the 
Conqueror . 

Archbishop Eldred . 
Doomsday Book 
Saxons and Normans 
The last Days of the Con¬ 
queror 

Death and Burial of 
William the Conqueror 
Character of the Con¬ 


queror 

William Rufus 
Castles of the Norman) 
Kings . . . ) 

Death of the Red King 
The New Forest 
WalterTyrrel and William 1 
Rufus . . . j 

Character of Rufus 
The Crusades 
Henry and Maud 
Robert, the Captive. 

The Shipwreck of Prince ) 
William - . . ) 

The White Ship 
Oppressions of the People. 
The Children of Henry . 
The Accession of Stephen 
No Normans 

The Battle of the Standard 
The Invasion of Maud 
Stephen and Maud . 

The Feudal System 
The Feudal System—II. . 
Accession of Henry II. 
The Rise of Thomas a 
Becket 

The Fall of Thomas k 
Becket 

The Death of Thomas k 
Becket 

The King and the Arch¬ 
bishop 

The Greatness of the Clergy 
Penance of Henry II. 


Thierry. 

Thierry. 

Anonymous. 

Thierry. 

Anonymous. 

C. Knight. 

Rev. J. White. 

Anonymous. 

Thierry. 

G. L. Craik. 

Thierry. 

C. Knight. 

Landor. 

Swift. 

Hume. 

Anonymous. 

Burke. 

Southey. 

Rev. J. White 

G L. Craik. 

Thierry. 

Hume. 

Thierry. 

Thierry. 

Thierry 

Keats. 

Guizot. 

Guizot. 

Hume. 

Mac Farlane . 

Thierry. 

Thierry. 

G. Daeley 

Burke. 

Thierry. 









IV 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

239. 

243. 

247. 

253. 

256. 

259. 


The Conquest of Ireland. Burke. 

The Death of Rosamond T. May. 
Administration of the Laws G. L. Craik. 


Thierry. 
Peter ofBlois 


263. 

266. 

269. 

273. 

278. 

282. 


Hallam. 


Hallam. 
Hume. 


284. 


Burke. 


291. 

294. 

300. 

302. 


C. Knight. 


309. 

312. 

315. 

318. 

321. 

324. 

328. 


329. 

333. 


339. 

343. 


The Death of Henry II. 

Character of Henry II. 

Character of the Norman 
Government . 

Magna Charta 
Richard the Crusader 
The Fleet of Coeur de Lion £ iuthey. 

The Crusade . . . Penny Mag 

The Captivity of Richard. Thierry. 
Death and Character of 
Richard 

Robin Hood and Sher¬ 
wood Forest 
John and Arthur . 

Arthur and Hubert. 

Shakspere’s Arthur 
King John and the Papal ) TT 
Power . . j Hume - 

King John and the Barons Hume. 
Runuemede . . . C. Knight. 

The First Naval Victory. Southey. 

The Last Days of John . Burke. 

The Death of John . . Shakspere. 

The Annals of Henry III. Penny Cyclo. 
The Defence of Dover ) 

Castle . . j Southey. 

Simon de Montfort . . Rev. J. White. 

Parliamentary Repre- ) „ 
sentation . . J Dallam. 

Battle of Evesham . . Old England. 

Chronological History of Events. 


Burke. 
Shakspere. 
C. Knight. 


BOOK IV. 


349, 

352, 

354, 

357. 


363. 

366, 


368. 


372. 

376. 

380. 


385. 

388. 

391. 

397. 


404. 


Annals of Edward I. 

The Conquest of Wales 

The Bard 

The Story of William 
Wallace 

Wallace and Bruce. 

The Death of Piers Ga- 
yeston 

The Battle of^Bannock- 
burn . . 

The Fall of Edward II. 

The Death of Edward II 

The English Possessions 
in France . 

The Battle of Cressy 

The Siege of Calais . 

The Battle of Poitiers 

Edward III. and the 
Countess of Salisbury 

Be trand du Guesclin 


Penny Cyclo. 

Goldsmith. 

Gray. 


Sir W. Scott. 
Cunningham. 
C. Knight. 


Sir W. Scott. 


Goldsmith. 
Ma rlowe. 


B. St. Leger. 


Froissart. 

Froissart. 

Froissart. 


Old Play. 
Historical 


( Parallels. 


Pag 

4u7 


410 


416. 

421. 


426. 


429. 

433. 

436. 


439. 

443. 

447. 

454. 


457. 

465. 


468. 

475. 

479. 


484. 

486. 


490. 

493. 


497. 

499. 


506. 

509. 

513. 

516. 

520. 


522. 

525. 

527. 

531. 

538. 

541. 

545. 


551. 

556. 

559. 


562. 


168. 


574. 


The Insurrection of the j 
Peasants . . j 

The Banishment of Bo- ) 
lingbroke and Mowbray \ 
The Return ofBolingbroke 
The Deposition of Ri¬ 
chard II. 

How Sir John Froissart 
ai'rived in England 
The Conquest of Ireland 
The Discontents in England 
The Captivity of Richard 
II. . 

The Deposition of Ri¬ 
chard . 

Exeter’s Conspiracy / 
against Henry IV. ij 
The Revolt of the 
Percies 

The Battle of Shrews¬ 
bury • 

The Death of Henry IV. 
King Henry V. and the { 
Lord Chief Justice ( 
The Battle of Agincourt . 
The Battle of Agincourt . 
The Decay and Subver¬ 
sion of the English 
Dominion in France 
The Slaughter of the 
Prisoners at Agincourt ( 
The Death of John Tal¬ 
bot and his Son . J 

The Siege of Orleans 
Brief History of the Maid I 
of Orleans . . j 

The Maid of Orleans 
The Trial and Death of 
the Maid of Orleans 
The Insurrection of Cade . 
The White and Red Roses 
The Battle of Towton 
The Death of Clarence 
The Death of Lord ) 
Hastings . . ^ 

Tne Princes in the Tower 
Bosworth Field 
Lambert Siruuel 
Perkin Warbeck—I. 

The Cornish Insurrection. 
Perkin Warbeck—II. 

The Tragedy of Perkin 
Warbeck 
Character of Henry VII. 
The Trial of Buckingham 
The Trial of Queen Ka¬ 
tharine 

The Fall of Wolsey . 

The Reign of Henry VIII 
The Field of the Cloth 
of Gold 


Hume. 


Shakspere. 

Shakspere. 

Shakspere. 




Froissart. 


Froissart. 
Froissa rt. 


Froissart. 

Froissart. 




Hall. 

Shakspere. 


Shakspere. 

Shakspere. 

Shakspere. 


Penny Mag. 
Shakspere. 


Penny Cyclo. 


Rev. J. E. 
Tyler. 


Shakspere. 
Shakspere. 
Penny Cyclc. 
Southey. 
Barante. 


Hall. 

Hall. 

Shakspere. 

Shakspere. 


Sir T. More. 


Hey wood. 
Hall. 

Lord Bacon. 
Lord Bacon. 
Lord Bacon. 
Lord Bacon. 
Rev. James 
White. 
Lord Bacon. 
Shakspere. 


Cavendish. 

Shakspere. 
Penny Cyclo. 

Hall. 






CONTENTS. 


Page 

579. Evil May-Day 

585. The Fall of Anne Boleyn 

588. Anne Boleyn’s Letter 

589. The Tragedy of Anne \ 

Boleyn . . $ 

599. The Translation of the j 

Bible into English $ 

600. The Death of Sir Thomas j 

More. . . $ 

605. Suppression of the Mo- ) 

nasteries . . | 

608. The Fall of Cromwell 
610. The Last Days of Henry ) 
VIII. . . j 

616. Condition of the People . 
618. Beginnings of the Re- ) 
formation in Scotland \ 
623. Edward VI. and the j 
Annuls of his Reign ) 


IIall. 

Hume. 

Anne Boleyn. 
Rev. H. H. 
Milman. 

Bp. Burnet. 

Pict. Hist, of 
' England. 

Hume. 

Hume. 

Hume. 

Strype. 

Sir W. Scott. 

Penny Cyclo. 


Page 

628. Sonnets—‘Edward VI.’ 

and ‘ Revival of Po¬ 
pery ’ 

629. The Reign of Mary . 
632. The Death of Lady Jane 

Grey . 

635. The Protestant Martyrs 
639. The Reign of Elizabeth 
647. Mary, Queen of Soots 
651. Babington’s Conspiracy, 
and Execution of Mary, 
Queen of Scots 

656. The Spanish Armada 

659. The Fall of Essex . 

664. Essex and Bacon . 
666. The Government of the 
Tudors 

671. Chronology of Principal 


Wordsworth. 

Penny Cyclo. 

Hume. 

Goldsmith. 

. Penny Cyclo. 

. Penny Cyclo. 

| Goldsmith. . 

Plain Eng¬ 
lishman. 

. C. Knight. 

. Landor. 

Macaulay. 

Events. 


i 













■ 




. 

' 





















































HALF HOLES 

OF 

ENGLISH HISTORY. 


BOOK I. 

THE ROMAN PERIOD. 


1.—CiESAll’S INVASION OF BRITAIN. Dion Cassius. 

i 

The conquest and colonization of Britain by the Romans is the beginning of our real history. 
All before this is obscure and fabulous. Although Milton “ determined to bestow the telling 
over even of these reputed tales,” lie avows that, “ of British affairs, from the first peopling 
of the island to the coming of Julius Caesar, nothing certain, either by tradition, history, or 
ancient fame, hath hitherto been left us.” In Dr. J. Lappenberg’s “ England under the 
Anglo-Saxon Kings,” translated by Mr. Thorpe, we have the following general remarks on 
what may be termed our Mythic period:— 

For the earliest notice of its existence among nations, Britain is indebted to that 
spirit of commerce, through which it was itself one day to become so great. More 
than a thousand years before the birth of our Saviour, Gades and Tartessus had 
been founded by the Phoenicians, whose fearless traders we behold, in our dim 
vision of those remote times when tin was brought in less abundance from the 
ports of Spain, after a tedious coasting voyage of four months, fetching that metal 
from the islands which Herodotus denominates the Cassiterides, or islands pro¬ 
ducing tin ( KciaaiTepos ), and which now bear the name of the Scilly Islands. Hero¬ 
dotus was unable to ascertain the position of these islands, nor does he even men¬ 
tion the name of Britain. It is probable that the Phoenicians never sailed thither 
direct from their own coast, though Midacritus, the individual who is recorded as 
having first brought tin from the Cassiterides, seems by his name to have been a 
Phoenician. The earliest mention of the British islands by name is made by Aris¬ 
totle, who describes them as consisting of Albion and Terne. The Carthaginian 
Hisinlio, who, between the years 362 and 350 a.c., had been sent by his govern¬ 
ment on a voyage of discovery, also found the tin islands, which he calls Oestrym- 
nides, near Albion, and two days sail from Terne, in Mount’s Bay. His example 
was some years after followed by a citizen of the celebrated colony of the Pliocians, 
the Massilian Pytheas, to the scanty fragments of whose journal, preserved by 
Strabo and other ancient authors, we are indebted for the oldest accounts concern¬ 
ing the inhabitants of these islands. The Massilians and Narbonnese traded at 
an early period, (by land journies to the northern coast of Gaul), with the island 
Pitis, (Wight, or St. Michael’s Mount), and with the coasts of Britain. This early 
commerce was carried on both for the sake of the tin—an article of great import¬ 
ance to the ancients—and of lead; though these navigators extended their com¬ 
merce to other productions of the country, such as slaves, skins, and a superior 
breed of hunting dogs, which the Celts made use of in war. British timber was 
employed by Archimedes for the mast of the largest ship of war which he had 

B 











2 


HALF-HOURS OE ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[DION CASSIUS. 


caused to be built at Syracuse. Gold and silver are said to have been found there; 
also an inferior sort of pearl, which is still to be met with. This country and its 
metals soon became an object of scientific enquiry to the Greeks, as is proved by a 
work upon the subject by Polybius, the loss of which must be painfully felt by every 
one acquainted with the acuteness and sound judgment of that historian. 

The Romans first became acquainted with Britain through their thirst after uni¬ 
versal dominion. Scipio, to his enquiries concerning it among the merchants of the 
three most distinguished Celtic cities, Massilia, Narbo, and Corbelo, had received no 
satisfactory answer ; and Publius Crassus is named as the first Roman who visited 
the Cassiterides; and who observing that the metals were dug from but a little depth, 
and that his men at peace were voluntarily occupying themselves on the sea, 
pointed out this course to such as were willing to take it. This was probably the 
officer of that name, who, by Caesar’s command, had achieved the conquest of the 
Gaulish nations inhabiting along the shores of the British Channel. 

Through Caesar’s conquest of the south of England, and the later sway held over 
it by the Roman emperors, wo are first enabled to form an idea of the country. 
Well might the goddess of science and of war appear to the Greeks and Romans 
under one form, (for it was the Macedonian and Roman swords that fixed for anti¬ 
quity the limits both of the earth and of historic knowledge), though their idea of 
Britain is, it must be confessed, a very obscure one, and stands much in need of 
the reflecting light of modern scientific research. To Strabo, as well as to Ccesar 
and Ptolemy, even the figure and relative position of the British Islands were un¬ 
certain. According to Strabo, Ireland lies to the north of Britain ; while to the 
last, the northern coasts of Ireland and Scotland appear on the same latitude. 
These errors must necessarily occasion numberless mistakes with regard to the 
positions of tribes and territories, when given according to the degrees of longitude 
and latitude. Our knowledge too with regard to the inhabitants is rendered ex¬ 
tremely unsatisfactory by the circumstance, that in the islands and their several 
districts very different degrees of civilization were met with, which have by authors 
been too generally applied, and in the most opposite senses. The inhabitants of 
the Cassiterides, whose position even Strabo seeks off Gallicia, are described by 
Pytheas in almost the same words as the Iberians are in other passages. Besides 
mining of a very simple description, they applied themselves to the rearing of 
cattle, and exchanged tin, lead, and hides with the traders, against salt, pottery, 
and brass ware. They appeared rambling about their tin islands with long beards 
like goats, clad in dark garments reaching to their heels, and leaning upon staves. 
It is not improbable that these accounts are also applicable to the neighbouring 
coast of Cornwall, perhaps even to the tribe of the Silures in South Wales ; but it 
is uncertain whether in these mountaineers we are to recognise Iberian settlers, or 
an original native population identical with that of the rest of South Britain. 
Navigation along the coasts, though only in small boats of twisted osier covered 
with leather, had, for a length of time, been very lively. The tin, formed into 
square blocks, was brought to the Isle of Wight, where it was purchased by mer¬ 
chants and carried over to Gaul, and then, in a journey of about thirty days, con¬ 
veyed on horses to Marseilles, Narbonne, and the mouths of the Rhone. A com¬ 
merce of this kind, by exciting individual industry, had long rendered the inhabi¬ 
tants of the southern coast of Britain active, docile, and friendly to strawgers ; vet 
was their spirit sunk in a slumber which held them to their native soil, until 
through the calamity of a most unjust hostile invasion, from being a country not 
reckoned among the nations of Europe, the land of British barbarians, known only 
to a few daring mariners, became a province closely connected with imperial Rome, 
and at length that state, which, more than any other of the European nations, has 




DION CASSIUS.] C.ESAR’s INVASION OF BRITAIN. 3 

impressed the stamp of its character and institutions, not only upon this portion of 
the globe, but also upon lands and regions not discovered till after a long course 
of ages. 

The inhabitants of Britain, with the exception, perhaps, of those above-men¬ 
tioned as Iberian colonists, belonged to the same great national family which we 
find in Gaul and in Belgium, and which commonly bears the name of Celts. The 
supposition of Tacitus of a difference between, the northern and the southern race, 
and that the former, from its strong bodily structure and red hair, was of Germanic 
origin, is by other accounts shown to be groundless. The language still living, 
particularly in Wales and Brittany, as well as the Druidic worship, which, though 
blended with Christianity, survived to a late period in the former country, supply¬ 
ing it, during a thousand years, with energy to withstand the English invaders, 
form the leading characteristics of this once great race, and which, being its intel¬ 
lectual portion, have been preserved the longest. 

In treating of the primitive history of the Britons, a writer must use their native 
traditions with great caution. Like those of the other European nations, they 
appear only in that Romanized garb which was fashioned in the modern world by 
the last rays of the setting Roman sun. Though at every step in the region of 
British tradition, we meet with traces of an eastern origin, yet the tales of the 
destruction of Troy, and of the flight of Brutus, a great grandson of iEneas, to 
Britain, are, in the unnatural travestie in which alone they have been transmitted 
to us, wholly devoid of historic value, and the simple truth seems lost to us beyond 
recovery. The vain Britons gratified their pride in adorning themselves with the 
faded tinsel, and appropriating to themselves the fabulous national tradition of 
Rome. 


But the great masters of the ancient world have marked their traces on our earth in deep 
lines, not to be obliterated: the written monuments of their rule are still more enduring. 
Csesar describes the circumstances of his landing; and the very day of that event can be fixed 
by astronomical computation. The little river which he first crossed still flows beneath the 
gentle hills where the bold natives confronted his legions ; and the topographer of our own 
times is the best witness to the truth of the historian of nineteen hundred years ago. Dion 
Cassius has also described the Roman invasion in his history, a translation of which we ex¬ 
tract from the splendid volume published ‘ by command of her Majesty,’ entitled “ Monu- 
menta Historica Britannica: ” - 

Caesar, therefore, first of the Romans, then crossed the Rhine, and afterwards 
passed over into Britain, in the consulship of Pompey and Crassus. This country 
is distant from the continent of Celtira, where the Morini dwell, at least four hun- 
f dred and fifty stadia : and it stretches out along the remaining portion of Gaul, 

■I and nearly the whole of Iberia, extending upward into the sea. To the earliest of 
the Greeks and Romans its very existence was not known, but to those of after 
times, it became matter of dispute whether it were a continent or an island , and 
much has been written on either side by persons, who, having neither themselves 
seen nor heard of it from its inhabitants, knew nothing concerning it, but merely 
conjectured, as prompted by leisure or the love of controversy ; in process of time, 
however, first under Agricola, the propraetor, and now under the emperor Severus 

it has been clearly proved to be an island. 

To this island, then, Caesar, at the time when the other Gauls were tranquil, and 
he had subjugated the Morini, vehemently desired to pass over. And he completed 
the passage with his infantry just as he wished, though he landed not at the spot 
he should have done; for the Britons, having already heard of his approach, had 











4 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[DION CASSIUS 

possessed themselves of all the landing-places facing the continent. Sailing, there¬ 
fore, round a certain promontory, he reached its farther side ; and then, having 
defeated those who attacked him while disembarking on the shallows, he effected 
his landing before further succours could arrive ; and afterwards repulsed the 
enemy when assailing him. Few, however, of the barbarians fell; for, being 
mounted on chariots and on horses, they easily escaped from the Romans, whose 
cavalry had not yet joined them ; nevertheless, greatly alarmed at what they had 
heard from the continent concerning them, and at their boldness in crossing the 
sea at all, and their success in effecting a landing in their country, they send to 
Ckesar certain of the Morini, who were in amity with them, suing for peace, and on 
his demanding hostages they consented at the time to give them. 

But the Romans meanwhile having suffered severely through a storm which had 
shattered their ships already arrived, as well as those which were on their passage, 
the Britons changed their purpose ; and although they did not openly attack them, 
for the camp was strongly defended, yet intercepting such as had been sent out, as I 
though into a friendly country for provisions, they killed them., with the exception 
of a few, whom Csesar speedily surrounded ; and after this they attempted the 
camp itself, but without effect, and were repelled with loss ; they would not come 
to terms, however, until they had been repeatedly worsted. Caesar, in truth, had 
no intention to grant them peace ; but as the winter was approaching, and he had 
not sufficient forces present to carry on the war during its continuance ; moreover, 
as the fleet he expected had failed to reach its port, and the Gauls, in consequence 
of his absence, had become tumultuous, he reluctantly entered into treaty with 
them ; demanding still more hostages, though he received but a small number. 

He then sailed back to the continent, and quieted the commotions there ; having 
gained no advantage to himself or to the state from Britain, except the glory of 
having conducted an expedition against it. Of this, indeed, he spoke in very lofty 
terms himself, and the Romans at home entertained a wonderful high opinion, j 
For seeing that places before unknown were now made manifest, and a region 
hitherto unheard off, now rendered accessible to them ; they indulged the hope of 
success, as if it were already a reality, and looking upon whatever they expected to 
achieve as now in their possession, they gave way to joy : and on this account they 
decreed a festival of twenty days continuance. 

Such were the transactions at Rome in its seven hundredth year. But in Gaul, 
under the consulship of the before mentioned Lucius Domitius and Appius Claudius’ 
among other preparations Csesar built ships of an intermediate size, between his 
own swift sailing vessels and those of burthen which he had there obtained, that 
they might be as buoyant as possible, and yet resist the waves ; and although left 
on the strand, should receive no injury therefrom. As soon, therefore, as the 
season admitted of sailing, he again passed over into Britain ; alledging as a pre¬ 
text that the Britons had not sent him all the hostages which they had promised 
for as he had at that time departed without accomplishing his purpose they thought 
he would never attempt them again, but his real motive was a vehement desire of 
possessing the island ; so that had not this happened, he would easily have found 
some other pretext. He landed at the same place as before, no one daring to re¬ 
sist him, both on account of the multitude of his ships, and because they reached 
the shore on many points at once ; and immediately he fortified his naval station 

From these causes, therefore, the barbarians were unable to obstruct his land¬ 
ing, and becoming more terrified than formerly, inasmuch as he had arrived with a 
more numerous army, they conveyed their substance of greatest value into such 
neighbouring thickets as were most difficult of access ; and having placed them in 
safety, for they cut down the surrounding trees, and piled others in layers upon 




DON CASSIUS.] CiESAR S INVASION OF BRITAIN. 6 

them so as in some degree to resemble a wall, they then h.fested the foraging 
parties of the Romans. Being worsted, moreover, in a certain battle in the open 
country, they enticed the Romans, in the pursuit, to their fastness, and thence in 
turn killed many of them. And after this a tempest having again shattered the 
enemies ships, the Britons summoned their allies, and made an attack even upon 
the Roman station ; having given the command to Cassivelaunus, the chief poten¬ 
tate of the island. The Romans, then, coming into conflict with them, were at 
first thrown into disorder by the shock of their chariots ; but afterwards opening 
their ranks and letting them pass through, and aiming obliquely at the assailing 
enemy, they retrieved the fight. 

For a time both parties maintained their position ; but afterwards the barbarians, 
although they were victorious over the infantry, yet being worsted by the cavalry, 
retreated to the Thames ; and defending its passage with stakes, as well above as 
beneath the water, here they took their station. But when Coesar, by a vigorous 
attack, compelled them to quit their stockade, and next drove them by siege from 
their fortress ; while such of them as assailed the naval station were routed by his 
other troops, they became terrified, and obtained peace on sending hostages, and 
being constrained to pay a yearly tribute. 

Thus Caesar departed wholly from the island, leaving therein no portion of his 
army ; thinking that it would be dangerous for it to winter in a hostile country, 
and inexpedient for himself to be longer absent from Gaul. 


CYMBELINE. 


Shakspere. 


One of the authors of “ Guesses at Truth” says, “Seeing that the history of the world is 
one of God’s own great poems, how can any man aspire to do more than recite a few brief 
passages from it? This is what man’s poems are, the best of them. * * * * This, too, 

is -what man’s histories would be, could other men write history in the same vivid, speaking 
characters, in which Shakspere has placed so many of our kings in imperishable individuality 
before us ? Only look at his King John : look at any historian’s. Which gives you the live¬ 
liest, faithfullest representation of that prince, and of his age ? the poet? or the historians?' 

This passage will explain why, in the Dramatic Scenes which these volumes will occasion 
ally present, we shall avoid any comparison with what is called the truth of history. But we 
shall not touch any scenes which are absolute violations of received historical facts. We shall 
endeavour to confine our selections to such scenes as convey, with whatever differences of 
power, something of “ the true knowledge to be learnt, whether from Poetry or from History 
—the knowledge of real importance to man for the study of his own nature—the knowledge of 
the principles and the passions by which men in various ages have been agitated and swayed, 
and by which events have been brought about.” 

The first drama that carries us into a period r ot very remote from the Roman invasion is 
the “Cymbeline” of Shakspere. It was not the purpose of the poet to make Cymbeline a 
History. The historical portion is subservient to the main action of the piece—the fortunes 
of Imogen and Posthumus. But there is enough of that historical portion to enable us to 
commence our scenes with a brief selection from our highest and most splendid historical 
teacher. 

In “Cymbeline” we have the ancient Britons presented to us under a rich colouring, 
whose tints belong to the truth of high art. Shakspere threw the scene with marvellous 
judgment into the obscure period of British history, when there was enough of fact to give 
precision to his painting, and enough of fable to cast over it that twilight hue which all poets 
love. In these scenes we are thrown back into the half-fabulous history of our own country, 
and see all objects under the dim light of uncertain events and manners. We have civilisation 





6 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE. 

contending with semi-barbarism; the gorgeous worship of the Pagan world subduing to itself 
the more simple worshq:) of the Druidical times; kings and courtiers surrounded with the 
splendour of “barbaric pearl and gold;” and, even in those days of simplicity, a wilder and 
a simpler life, amidst the fastnesses of mountains, and the solitude of caves—the hunters’ 
life, who “ have seen nothing”— 

“ Subtle as the fox for prey, 

Like warlike as the wolf,”— 

but who yet, in their natural piety, know “how to adore the heavens.” This is opposed ta 
our common notion of painted savages, living in wretched huts. There was a civilisation 
amongst the stock from which w r e are descended, before the Roman refinement. Strabo says 
that the Britons had the same manners as the Gauls. They wore party-coloured tunics, 
flowered with various colours in divisions. They had chequered cloaks. They bore helmets 
of brass upon their heads. They had broad-swords suspended by iron or brazen chains. 
Some were girded with belts of gold or silver. Pliny tells us that they excelled in the arts of 
weaving and dyeing cloth, and wove their fine dyed wool, so as to form stripes or chequers. 
This is the tartan of the Highlanders—“ the garb of old Gaul.” Their round bronze shields 
are the ornaments of our antiquarian cabinets. We may, without any violation of historical 
accuracy, believe that the Bomans had introduced their arts to an extent that might have 
made Cymbeline’s palace bear some of the characteristics of a Pom an villa. A highly-civilised 
people very quickly impart the external forms of their civilisation to those whom they hav6 
colonised. The houses of the inhabitants in general might retain in a great degree their 
primitive rudeness. • When Julius Cresar invaded Britain, the people of the southern coasts 
had already learned to build houses a little more substantial and convenient than those of the 
inland inhabitants. “ The country,” he remarks, “ abounds in houses, which very much 
resemble those of Gaul.” Now those of Gaul are thus described by Strabo :—“ They build 
their houses of wood, in the form of a circle, with lofty tapering roofs.”—Lib. v. The founda¬ 
tions of some of the most substantial of these circular houses w'ere of stone, of which there 
are still some remains in Cornwall, Anglesey, and other places. Strabo says, “ The forests 
of the Britons are their cities; for, wiien they have enclosed a very large circuit with felled 
trees, they build within it houses for themselves and hovels for their cattle.”—Lib. iv. But 
Cymbeline was one of the most wealthy and powerful of the ancient British kings. His capital 
w r as Camulodunum, supposed to be Maldon or Colchester. It was the first Poman colony in 
this island, and a place of great magnificence. 


Scene I. 

Caius Lucius is sent to Britain to demand tribute. “ In a Boom of State in 
Cymbeline’s palace ” we have the meeting between the King of our isle, and the 
Ambassador of Rome. Cymbeline, in this scene, is calm and dignified. The Queen 
and Cloten her son, are violent and coarse, as their characters are drawn ;_ 

Gym. Now say, what would Augustus Caesar with us ? 

Luc. When Julius Caesar (whose remembrance yet 
Lives in men’s eyes ; and will to ears and tongues 
Be theme and hearing ever) was in this Britain, 

And conquered it, Cassibelan, thine uncle 
(Famous in Caesar’s praises, no whit less 
Than in his feats deserving it), for him, 

And his succession, granted Rome a tribute, 

Yearly three thousand pounds ; which by thee lately 
Is left untender’d. 






SHAKSPERE.J 


CYMBELINE. 


7 


* Queen. And, to kill the marvel, 

Shall be so ever. 

Clo. There be many Caesars, 

Ere such another Julius. Britain is 
A world by itself; and we will nothing pay 
Eor wearing our own noses. 

Queen. That opportunity, 

Which then they had to take from us, to resume 
We have again.—Remember, sir, my liege, 

The kings your ancestors ; together with 
The natural bravery of your isle, which stands 
As Neptune’s park, ribbed and paled in 
With rocks unscaleable, and roaring waters ; 

With sands that will not bear your enemies’ boats, 

But suck them up to the top-mast. A kind of conquest 
Caesar made here; but made not here his brag 
Of came , and satv, and overcame with shame 
(The first that ever touch’d him) he was carried 
Erom off our coast, twice beaten ; and his shipping 
(Poor ignorant baubles !) on our terrible seas, 

Like egg-shells mov’d upon their surges, crack’d 
As easily ’gainst our rocks : for joy whereof, 

The fam’d Cassibelan, who was once at point 
(0, giglot ! fortune !) to master Caesar’s sword, 

Made Lud’s town with rejoicing fires bright, 

And Britons strut with courage. 

Clo. Come, there’s no more tribute to be paid : Our kingdom is stronger than it 
was at that time ; and, as I said, there is no more such Caesars: other of them 
may have crooked noses, but to owe such straight arms, none. 

Cym. Son, let your mother end. 

Clo. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan : I do not say 
I am one ; but I have a hand.—Why tribute ? why should we pay tribute ? If 
Caesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we 
will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now. 

Cym. You must know, 

Till the injurious Romans did extort 
This tribute from us, we were free : Caesar’s ambition 
(Which swell’d so much that it did almost stretch 
The sides o’ the world), against all colour, here 
Did put the yoke upon us ; which to shake off 
Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon 
Ourselves to be. We do say then to Caesar, 

Our ancestor was that Mulmutius, which 
Ordain’d our laws ; (whose use the sword of Caesar 
Hath too much mangled ; whose repair and franchise 
Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed, 

Though Rome be therefore angry) ; Mulmutius made our laws* 

Who was the first of Britain which did put 
His brows within a golden crown, and call’d 
Himself a king. 

Luc. I am sorry, Cymbeline, 

That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar 




8 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


tSHAKSPERE, 


(Csesar that hath more kings his servants than 
Thyself domestic officers) thine enemy : 

Receive it from me, then :—War, and confusion, 
In Ccesar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee : look 
For fury not to be resisted :—Thus defied, 

I thank thee for myself. 

Cyra. Thou art welcome, Caius, 

Thy Oesar knighted me ; my youth I spent 
Much uuder him ; of him I gather’d honour ; 
Which he to seek of me again, perforce, 

Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect 
That the Pannonians and Dalmatians, for 
Their liberties, are now in arms : a precedent 
Which not to read would show the Britons cold : 
So Caesar shall not find them. 


Luc. Let proof speak. 

Clo. His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day, or two, or 
longer : If you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water 
girdle : if you beat us out of it, it is yours ; if you fall in the adventure, our crows 
shall fare the better for you ; and there’s an end. 

Luc. So, sir. 

Cyra. I know your master’s pleasure, and he mine : 

All the remain is, welcome. 




Scene II. 

Upon the written history of the sons of Cymbeline, Shakspere has engrafted the 
romantic story that they were stolen from their father’s care, and brought up 
amongst the mountain fastnesses of Wales, in the primitive simplicity of the 
hunter’s life. 

The nurture which Shakspere has assigned to these youths is in harmony with 
their historical prowess. There are few things finer in the Shaksperean drama than 
the scenes in which these bold mountaineers display the influence of their primitive 
habits. They are not ignorant; they are full of natural piety ; they have strong 
affections ; but the world has been shut out from them, and the conventional 
usages of the world have no power over their actions. The fierce courage with 
which they rush to slaughter, and the exquisite tenderness with which they mourn 
their poor Fidele, are equally the results of their inartificial education. The very 
structure of the dramatic verse seems to partake of the rugged freedom of their 
characters :— 

Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. 

Bel. A goodly day not to keep house with such 
Whose roof’s as low as ours ! Stoop, boys : this gate 
Instructs you how to adore the heavens; and bows you 
To a morning’s holy office : the gates of monarclis 
Are arch’d so high that giants may jet through 
And keep their impious turbans on, without 
Good morrow to the sun.—Hail, thou fair heaven, 

We house i’ the rock, yet use thee not so hardly 
As prouder livers do. 

Gui. Hail, heaven! 







SHAKSPERE.] 


CYMBELINE. 


i) 

Arv. Hail, heaven ! 

Bel . Now for our mountain sport: up to yon hill, 

Your legs are young ; I’ll tread these flats. Consider 
When you above perceive me like a crow, 

That it is place which lessens and sets off; 

And you may then revolve what tales I have told you 
Of courts, of princes, of the tricks iu war : 

This service is not service, so being done, 

But being so allow’d : to apprehend thus, 

Draws us a profit from all things we see : 

And often, to our comfort, shall we find 
The sharded beetle in a safer hold 
Than is the full-wing’d eagle. Oh, this life 
Is nobler, than attending for a check ; 

Richer, than doing nothing for a bribe ; 

Prouder, than rustling in unpaid-for silk : 

Such gains the cap of him that makes him fine, 

Yet keeps his book uncross’d : no life to ours. 

Gui. Out of your proof you speak : we, poor unfledged, 

Have never wing’d from view o’ the nest ; nor known not 
What air’s from home. Haply, this life is best. 

If quiet life be best; sweeter to you, 

That have a sharper known ; well corresponding 
With your stiff age ; but unto us it is 
A cell of ignorance ; travelling abed ; 

A prison for a debtor, that not dares 
To stride a limit. 

Arv. What should we speak of 

When we are old as you ? when w r e shall hear 
The rain and wind beat dark December, how, 

In this our pinching cave, shall w r e discourse 
The freezing hours away ? We have seen nothing ; 

We are beastly ; subtle as the fox, for prey ; 

Like warlike as the v r olf, for what we eat. 

Our valour is to chase what flies ; our cage 
We make a quire, as doth the prison’d bird, 

And sing our bondage freely. 

Bel. How you speak ! 

Did you but know the city’s usuries, 

And felt them knowingly : the art o’ the court, 

As hard to leave, as keep; whose top to climb 

Is certain falling, or so slippery that 

The fear’s as bad as falling: the toil of the war 

A pain that only seems to seek out danger 

I’ the name of fame and honour: which dies i’ the search; 

And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph 
As record of fair act; nay, many times, 

Doth ill deserve by doing w r ell ; what’s v T orse 
Must court’sy at the censure:—0, boys, this story 
The world may read in me: My body’s marked 
With Roman sw'ords ; and my report was once 
First with the best of note : Cymbeline lov’d me : 






10 HALE-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY (SHAKSPERE 

And when a soldier was the theme my name 
Was not far oft’: Then was I as a tree 
Whose boughs did benci with fruit : but, in one night, 

A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, 

Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, 

And left me bare to weather. 

Gui. Uncertain favour ! 

Bel. My fault being nothing (as I have told you oft) 

But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail’d 
Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline 
I was confederate with the Romans ; so, 

Follow’d by banishment; and, this twenty years, 

This rock and these demesnes have been my world; 

Where I have liv’d at honest freedom ; paid 
More pious debts to heaven, than in all 
The fore-end of my time.—But, up to the mountains ; 

This is not hunters’ language :—He that strikes 
The venison first shall be the lord o’ the feast; 

To him the other two shall minister ; 

And we will fer no poison, which attends 
In place of greater state. I’ll meet you in the valleys. 

Scene III. 

The Roman legions at length tread the British soil:— 

Lucius, a Captain, and other Officers, and a Soothsayer. 

Cap. To them, the legions garrison’d in Gallia, 

After your will, have cross’d the sea ; attending 
You here at Milford-Haven, with your ships: 

• They are here in readiness. 

Luc. But what from Rome 1 

Cap. The senate hath stirr’cl up the confiners, 

And gentlemen of Italy; most willing spirits 
That promise noble service: and they come 
Under the conduct of bold Iachimo, 

Sienna’s brother. 

Luc. When expect you them ? 

Cap. With the next benefit o’ the wind. 

Luc. This forwardness 

Makes our hopes fair. Command, our present numbers 
Be muster’d ; bid the captains look to’t.—Now, sir, 

What have you dream’d, of late, of this war’s purpose ? 

Sooth. Last night the very gods show’d me a vision: 

(I fast, and pray’d, for their intelligence,) Thus:— 

I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, wing’d 
From the spungy south to this part of the west, 

There vanish’d in the sunbeams : which portends 
(Unless my sins abuse my divination) 

Success to the Roman host. 

Luc. Dream often so, 

And never false.— 

The cave of Belarius hears the din of the coming strife. One of the youths has 










SHAKE FERE,] CYMBELINE. 11 

alam Cloten, the queen’s son. The old man vainly strives to persuade them to fly 
to deeper recesses of their mountains :— 

Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. 

Grid. The noise is round about us. 

Bel. Let us from it. 

Arv. "What pleasure, sir, find we in life to lock it 
From action and adventure 1 

Gui. Nay, what hope 

Have we in hiding us ? this way, the Romans 
Must or for Britons slay us ; or receive us 
For barbarous and unnatural revolts 
During their use, and slay us after. 

Bel. Sons, 

We ’ll higher to the mountains ; there secure us. 

To the king’s party there’s no going : newness 
Of Cloten’s death (we being not known, not muster’d 
Among the bands) may drive us to a render 
Where we have liv’d; and so extort from us that 
Which we have done, whose answer would be death 
Drawn on with torture. 

Gui , This is, sir, a doubt 

In such a time nothing becoming you, 

Nor satisfying us. 

Arv. It is not likely 

That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, 

Behold their quarter’d fires, have both their eyes 
And ears so cloy’d importantly as now, 

That they will waste their time upon our note, 

To know from whence we are. 

Bel. 0, I am known 

Of many in the army : many years, 

Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him 
From my remembrance. And, besides, the king 
Hath not deserv’d my service, nor your loves; 

Who find in my exile the want of breeding, 

The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless 
To have the courtesy your cradle promis’d, 

But to be still hot summer’s tanlings, and 
The shrinking slaves of winter. 

Gui. Than be so, 

Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to the army: 

I and my brother are not known: yourself 
So out of thought, and thereto so o’ergrown, 

Cannot be question’d. 

Arv. By this sun that shines, 

I ’ll thither: What thing is it, that I never 
Did see man die 1 scarce ever look’d on blood, 

But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison ? 

Never bestrid a horse, save one, that had 
A rider like myself, who ne’er wore rowel 
Nor iron on his heel ? I am asham’d 


12 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[8HAKSFERE 


To look upon the holy sun, to have 
The benefit of his bless’d beams, remaining 
So long a poor unknown. 

Gui. By heavens, I ’ll go : 

If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, 

I ’ll take the better care; but if you will not, 

The hazard therefore due fall on me, by 
The hands of Romans ! 

Arv. So say I; Amen. 

Bel. No reason I, since of your lives you set 
So slight a valuation, should reserve 
My crack’d one to more care. Have with you, boys: 

If in your country wars you chance to die, 

That is my bed too, lads, and there I ’ll lie : 

Lead, lead.—The time seems long : their blood thinks scorn, 

Till it fly out and show them princes born. 

The Briton, Posthumus, who has landed with the Roman army, and believes that 
his lady, Imogen, has been put to death by his own rash commands, through the 
falsehood of Iachimo, determines to take part with his countrymen :— 

I am brought hither 

Among the Italian gentry, and to fight 

Against my lady’s kingdom: ’Tis enough 

That, Britain, I have kill’d thy mistress. Peace ! 

I ’ll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, 

Hear patiently my purpose ; I ’ll disrobe me 
Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself 
As does a Briton peasant; so I ’ll fight 
Against the part I come with; so I ’ll die 
For thee, 0 Imogen, even for whom my life 
Is, every breath, a death : and thus, unknown, 

Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril 

Myself I ’ll dedicate. Let me make men know 

More valour in me, than my habits show. 

Gods, put the strength o’ the Leonati in me ! 

To shame the guise o’ the world, I will begin 
The fashion less without, and more within. 

The contest between the Roman and British armies is, in this play, exhibited in 
dumb-show. The drama preceding Shakspere was full of such examples. But 
Shakspere uniformly rejected the practice, except in this instance. The stage direc¬ 
tions of the original copy are very curious ; and we therefore carry on the narra¬ 
tive by the aid of these stage directions :— 

1 

Enter at one door Lucius, Iachimo, and the Roman army , and the British army cU 
another. Leonatus Posthumus following , like a poor soldier. They march over 
and go out. Then enter again , in skirmish , Iachimo and Posthumus : he van¬ 
quished and disarmed Iachimo, and then leaves him. 

lack. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom 
Takes off my manhood : I have belied a lady, 

The princess of this country, and the air on’t 
Revengingly enfeebles me. Or, could this carl. 




BHAKSl’ERE.] 


CYMBELINE. 


13 


A very drudge of nature’s, have subdued me 

In my profession ? Knighthoods and honours, borne 

As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn. 

If that thy gentry, Britain, go before 
This lout, as he exceeds our lords, the odds 

Is, that we scarce are men, and you are gods. [Exit. 

The battle continues ; the Britons fly : Cymbeline is taken; then enter, to his rescue 

Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. 

Bel. Stand, stand ! We have the advantage of the ground ; 

The lane is guarded ; nothing routs us but 
The villainy of our fears. 

Gui, Arv. Stand, stand, and fight! 

Enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britons : They rescue Cymbeline., and exeunt 

Then , enter , Lucius, Iachimo, and Imogen. 

Luc. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself : 

For friends kill friends, and the disorder’s such 
As war were hood-wink’d. 

lack. ’T is their fresh supplies. 

Luc. It is a day turn’d strangely : Or betimes 
Let's re-inforce, or fly. \Exev.nU 

Enter Posthumus and a British Lord. 

Lord. Cam’st thou from where they made the stand $ 

Post. I did ; 

Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. 

Lord. I did. 

Post. No blame be to you, sir : for all was lost, 

But that the heavens fought: The king himself, 

Of his wings destitute, the army broken, 

And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying 
Through a strait lane ; the enemy, full-hearted, 

Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work 
More plentiful than tools to do’t, struck down 
Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some falling 
Merely through fear; that the straight pass was damm’d 
With dead men, hurt behind, and cowards living 
To die with lengthen’d shame. 

Lord. Where was this lane ? 

Post. Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with turf; 

Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,— 

An honest one, I warrant; who deserv’d 
So long a breeding as kis white beard came to. 

In doing this for his country,—athwart the lane, 

He, with two striplings, (lads more like to run 
The country base, than to commit such slaughter ; 

With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer 
Than those for preservation cas’d or shame,) 

Made good the passage : cried to those that fled, 
u Our Britain’s harts die flying, not our men: 




14 


HALF-nOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE. 


To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards ! Stand ; 

Or we are Romans, and will give you that 

Like beasts, which you shun beastly ; and may save, 

But to look back in frown: stand, stand.”—These three, 
Three thousand confident, in act as many, 

(For three performers are the file when all 

The rest do nothing,) with this word, “ stand, stand," 

Accommodated by the place, more charming 

With their own nobleness, (which could have turn’d 

A distaff to a lance,) gilded pale looks, 

Part shame, part spirit renew’d; that some, turn’d coward 
But by example, (0, a sin in war, 

Damn’d in the first beginners!) ’gan to look 
The way that they did, and to grin like lions 
Upon the pikes o’ the hunters. Then began 
A stop i’ the chaser, a retire ; anon, 

A rout, confusion thick; Forthwith, they fly 
Chickens, the way which they stoop’d eagles ; slaves, 

The strides they victors made : And now our cowards 
(Like fragments in hard voyages) became 
The life o’ the need, having found the back-door open 
Of the unguarded hearts : Heavens, how they wound ! 
Some slain before ; some dying ; some their friends 
O’erborne i’ the former wave ; ten, chas’d by one, 

Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty : 

Those that would die or ere resist are grown 
The mortal bugs o’ the field. 

Lord, This was strange chance : 

A narrow lane! an old man, and two boys ! 

Post. Nay, do not wonder at it: You are made 
Rather to wonder at the things you hear, 

Than to work any. ^ 





The catastrophe of ‘Cymbeline’ has necessarily more immediate reference to 
the romantic part of the drama than to the historical. Here, it is sufficient to say 
that the king recovers his sons, and Posthumus his much injured lady. The first 
movement of the British king, in the spirit of barbarous warfare, is to doom the 
Roman prisoners to death :— 


Cym. Thou com’st not, Caius, now for tribute ; that 
The Britons have raz’d out, though with the loss 
Of many a bold one ; whose kinsmen have made suit 
That their good souls may be appeas’d with slaughter 
Of you their captives, which ourself have granted : 

So, think of your estate. 

Luc. Consider, sir, the chance of war : the day 
Was yours by accident ; had it gone with us, 

We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten’d 
Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods 
Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives 
May be call'd ransom, let it come : sufficeth 
A Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer: 





BHAKSPERE.] 


CYMBELINE. 


15 


Augustus lives to think on’t: and so much 
For my peculiar care. 

But Cymbeline’s hard purpose is changed. Posthumus forgives the arch-traitor 
Iacliimo :— 

“ The power that I have on you is to spare you.” 

And then the king exclaims, 

“ Pardon’s the word for all.” 

The drama concludes with peace between Britain and Rome. 


3.— THE INVASION OF CLAUDIUS. Milton. 

Milton has described the second Roman invasion, in all the pomp of his Latinized English. 

Through civil discord, Bericus, (what he was further, is not known) with others 
of his party flying to Rome, persuaded Claudius, the emperor, to an invasion. 
Claudius, now consul the third time, and desirous to do something, whence he 
might gain the honour of a triumph, at the persuasion of these fugitives, whom the 
Britians demanding, he had denied to render, and they for that cause had denied 
further amity with Rome, makes choice of this island for his province : and sends 
before him Aulus Plautius the praetor, w T itli this command, if the business grew 
difficult, to give him notice. Plautius with much ado, persuaded the legions to 
move out of Gallia, murmuring that now they must be put to make war beyond 
the world’s end, for so they counted Britian ; and what welcome Julius the dictator 
found there, doubtless they had heard. At last prevailed with, and hoisting sail 
from three several ports, lest their landing should in any one place be resisted, 
meeting cross winds, \hey were cast back and disheartened : till in the night a 
meteor shooting flames from the east, and, as they fancied, directing their course, 
they took heart again to try the sea, and ^without opposition landed. For the 
Britians having heard of their unwillingness to come, had been negligent to pro¬ 
vide against them; and retiring to the woods and moors, intended to frustrate and 
wear them out wit. delays, as they had served Caesar before. Plautius after much 
trouble to find then t, encountering first with Caractacus, then with Togodumnus, 
overthrew them ; an receiving into conditions part of the Boduni, who then were 
subject to the Catueilani, and leaving there a garrison, went on toward a river ; 
where the Britians not imagining that Plautius without a bridge could pass, lay on 
the farther side careless and secure. But he sending first the Germans, whose 
custom was, armed as they were, to swim with ease the stiongest current, com¬ 
mands them to strike especially at the horses, whereby the chariots, wherein con¬ 
sisted their chief art of fight, became unserviceable. To second them he sent 
Vespasian, who in his latter days obtained the empire, and feabmus his biothei ; 
who unexpectedly assailing those who were least aware, did much execution. V et not 
for this were the Britians dismayed ; but re-uniting the next day, fought with such 
a courage, as made it hard to decide which way hung the victoiy ; till Caius Sidius 
Geta, at point to have been taken, recovered himself so valiantly, as brought the 
day on his side ; for which at Rome he received high honours. Aftci this the 
Britians drew back toward the mouth of the Thames, and acquainted with those 
places crossed over; where the Romans following them through bogs and dangerous 
flats, hazarded the loss of all. Yet the Germans getting over, and others by a 
bridge at some place above, fell on them again with sundry alarms and great 
slaughter • but in the heat of pursuit running themselves again into bogs and 
mires lost as many of their own. Uponwhich ill success, and seeing the Britians 






16 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[MILTON, 

more enraged at tlie death of Togodurnnus, who in one of these battles had been 
slain, Plautius fearing the worst, and glad that he could hold what he held, as w&sl 
enjoined him, sends to Claudius. He who waited ready with a large preparation, asl 
if not safe enough amidst the flower of all his Romans, like a great eastern king,c; 
with armed elephants marches through Gallia. So full of peril was this enterprise! 
esteemed, as not without all this equipage, and stranger terrors than Roman armies r 
to meet the native and the naked British valour defending their country. Joined 
with Plautius, who encamping on the back of Thames attended him, he passes the 
river. The Britians, who had the courage but not the wise conduct of old Cassi- 
belan, laying all strategem aside, in downright manhood scrupled not to affront in 
open field almost the whole power of the Roman empire. But overcome and van¬ 
quished, part by force, others by treaty come in and yield. Claudius therefore, 
who took Camalodunum, the royal seat of Cunobeline, was often by the army 
saluted Imperator ; a military title which usually they gave their general after any 
notable exploit ; but to others, not above once in the same w r ar; as if Claudius, by. 
these acts, had deserved more than the laws of Rome had provided honour to reward. 
Having therefore disarmed the Britians, but remitted the confiscation of their 
goods, for which they worshipped him with sacrifice and temple as a god, leaving. 
Plautius to subdue what remained ; he returns to Rome, from whence he had been 
absent only six months, and in Britian but sixteen days ; sending the news before 1 
him of his victories, though in a small part of the island. By which is manifestly 
refuted that which Eutropius and Orosius write of his conquering at that time alscl 
the Orcades islands, lying to the north of Scotland ; and not conquered by the • 
Romans, (for aught found in any good author), till above forty years after, as shall 
appear. To Claudius the senate, as for achievements of highest merit, decreed I 
excessive honours ; arches, triumphs, annual solemnities, and the surname o: 
Britannicus both to him and his son. 

Plautius after this, employing his fresh forces to conquer on, and quiet the! 
rebelling countries, found work enough to deserve at his return a kind of triumphant 
riding into the capitol side by side with the emperor. Vespasian also under Plautim| 
had thirty conflicts with the enemy; in one of wkich encompassed, and in great 
danger, he was valiantly and piously rescued by his son Titus :/Gvo powerful nations! 
he subdued here, above twenty tovms and the Isle of Wight jr which he receiver 
at Rome triumphal ornaments, and other great dignities. For that city in reward| 
of virtue was ever magnificent ; and long after when true merit was ceased among 
them, lest any thing resembling virtue should want honour, the same rewards were 
yet allowed to the very shadow and ostentation of merit. Ostorius in the room oil 
Plautius vice-prsetor, met w r ith turbulent affairs ; the Britians not ceasing to vex 
with inroads all those counties that were yielded to the Romans ; and now the 
more eagerly, supposing that the new general, unacquainted wfith his army, and on 
the edge of winter, would not hastily oppose them. But he weighing that first] 
events xvere most available to breed fear or contempt, with such coherts as wane 
next at hand, sets out against them : whom having routed, so close he follows as 
one who meant not to be every day molested with the cavils of a slight peace or 
an emboldened enemy. Lest they should make head again, he disarms w 7 hom he 
suspects ; and to surround them, places many garrisons upon the rivers of Antona 
and Sabrina. But the Icemans, a stout people, untouched yet by these w 7 ars as 
having before sought alliance with the Romans, were the first that brooked not 
this. By their example others rise ; and in a chosen place, fenced with high banks 
of earth, and narrow lanes to prevent the horse, wearily encamp. Ostorius, though 
yet not strengthened with his legions, causes the auxiliar bands, his troops also 
alighting, to assault the rampart. They wuthin though pestered with their own 



MILTON.] THE INVASION OF CLAUDIUS. 17 

Lumber, stood to it like men resolved, and in a narrow compass did remarkable 
deeds. But overpowered at last, and others by thc»ir success quieted, who till then 
wavered, Ostorius next bends his force upon the Cangians, wasting all even to the 
sea of Ireland, without foe in his way, or them, who durst, ill-handled ; when the 
Brigantes attempting new matters, drew him back to settle first what was unsecure 
behind him. They, of whom the chief were punished, the rest forgiven, soon gave 
over : but the Silures, no way tractable, were not to be repressed without a set war. 
To further this, Oamalodunum was planted with a colony of veteran soldiers ; to 
be a firm and ready aid against revolts, and a means to teach the natives Boman 
law and civility. Cogidunus also a British kiug, their fast friend, had to the same 
intent certain cities given him ; a haughty craft, which the Homans used, to make 
kiDgs also the servile agents of enslaving others. But the Silures hardy of themselves, 
relied more on the valour of Caractacus ; whom many doubtful, many prosperous 
successes had made eminent above all that ruled in Britian. He adding to his 
courage policy, and knowing himself to be of strength inferior, in other advantages 
the better, makes the seat of his war among the Ordovices : a country wherein all 
the odds were to his own party, all the difficulties to his enemy. The hills and 
every access he fortified with heaps of stones, and guards of men ; to come at whom 
a river of unsafe passage must be first waded. The place, as Camden conjectures, 
had thence the name of Caercarador on the west edge of Shropshire. He himself 
continually went up and down, animating his officers and leaders, “this was the 
day, this the field, either to defend their liberty, or to die free calling to mind 
the names of his glorious ancestors, who drove Caesar the dictator out of Britian, 
whose valour hitherto had preserved them from bondage, their wives and children 
from dishonour. Influenced with these words, they all vow their utmost, with such 
undaunted resolution as amazed the Boman general ; but the soldiers less weighing, 
because less knowing, clamoured to be led on against any danger. Ostorius after 
wary circumspection, bids them pass the river: the Britians no sooner had them 
within reach of their arrows, darts and stones, but slew and wounded largely of the 
Bomans. They on the other side closing their ranks, and over head closing their 
targets, threw down the loose rampires of the Britians, and pursue them up the 
hills, both light and armed legions ; till what with galling darts and heavy strokes, 
the. Britians, who wore neither helmets nor cuirass to defend them, were at last 
overcome. This the Bomans thought a famous victory ; wherein the wife and 
daughter of Caractacus were taken, his brothers also reduced to obedience ; himself 
escaping to Cartismandua, queen of the Brigantes, against faith given was to the 
victors delivered bound ; having held out against the Bomans nine years, saitli 
Tacitus, but by truer computation, seven. Whereby his name was up through 
all the adjoining provinces, even to Italy and Borne ; many desiring to see who he 
was, that could withstand so many years the Boman puissance : and Csosar, to extol 
his own victory, extolled the man whom he had vanquished. Being brought to 
Borne, the people as to a solemn spectacle were called together, the emperor’s guard 
stood in arms. In order came first the king’s servants, bearing his trophies won 
in other wars, next his brothers, wife and daughter, last himself. The behaviour 
of others, through fear, was low and degenerate ; he only neither in countenance, 
word, or action submissive, standing at the tribunal of Claudius, briefly spake to 
this purpose : “ If my mind, Ciesar, had been as moderate in the height of fortune 
as my birth and dignity was eminent, I might have come a friend, rather than a 
captive into this city. Nor couldst thou have disliked him for a confederate, so 
noble of descent, and ruling so many nations. My present estate to me disgraceful, 
to thee is glorious. I had riches, horses, arms, and men ; no wonder then if I 
contended not to lose them. But if by fate, yours only must be empire, then ot 

c 


I g HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [MILTON 

necessity ours among tlie rest must be subjection. If I sooner had been brought 
to yield, my misfortune would have been less notorious, your conquest had been 
less renowned, and in your severest determining of me, both will be soon forgotten. 
But if you grant that I shall live, by me will live to you for ever that praise which 
is so near divine, the clemency of a conqueror.” Csesar moved at such a spectacle 
of fortune, but especially at the noblenes of his bearing it, gave him pardon, and to 
all the rest. They all unbound, submissively thank him, and did like reverence to 
Agrippina the emperor’s wife, who sat by in state ; a new and disdained sight to 
the manly eye of Homans, a woman sitting public in her female pride among ensigns 
and armed cohorts. To Ostorius triumph is decreed; and his acts esteemed 
equal zo theirs, that brought in bonds to Rome famousest kings. 


4.—BONDUCA. 


XlPHILINE. 


(From the Translation in 1 The Monumenta Historica Britannica.’) 


While he, (Nero), thus trifled at Rome, a dreadful calamity happened in Britain; 
for two cities were destroyed, eighty thousand of the Romans or of their allies were 
slain, and the island became in a state of insurrection. And the more to increase 
their shame, all this calamity was brought upon them by a woman : indeed the 
Divinity had in some measure foreboded this disaster ; for in the night a barbaric 
murmuring attended with laughter, was heard from the Senate-house, and a mut¬ 
tering, with lamentation from the theatre, although there was no human being 
either to clamour or to bewail. Certain dwellings also appeared under water in 
the river Thames, and the ocean between the island and Gaul flowed with blood at 
the time of high tide. 

The cause of the war was the sale of property which Claudius had given up to 
their chiefs ; and which Decianus Catus, the prsefect of the island, said it was 
necessary should be recalled. And to this was added, that Seneca having lent 
them, against their will, a thousand myriads of money in expectation of interest, 
suddenly and violently called in his loan. She, however, who chiefly excited and 
urged them to fight against the Romans was Bunduica, who was deemed worthy to 
command them, and who led them in every battle : a Briton of royal race, and 
breathing more than female spirit. Having collected, therefore, an army to the 
number of about one hundred and twenty thousand, she, after the Roman custom, 
ascended a tribunal made of marsny earth. She was of the largest size, most 
terrible of aspect, most savage of countenance and harsh of voice ; having a pro¬ 
fusion of yellow hair which fell down to her hips, and wearing a large golden collar: 
she had on a party-coloured floating vest drawn close about her bosom, and over 
this she wore a thick mantle connected by a clasp : such was her usual dress : but 
at this time she also bore a spear, that thus she might appear more formidable to 
all ; and she spake after this manner. 

‘ You must be convinced by experience how much freedom surpasses slavery ; 
for if any of you formerly, through ignorance of which might be the better, have 
been deceived by the seducing promises of the Romans; now, having tried both, 
you must have learnt how much you have erred in esteeming slavery of your own 
seeking, preferable to the usage of your country ; and you must have felt how 
superior is poverty with liberty, to opulence with thraldom; for what indeed is 
there most base, what most grievous, that we have not suffered, since these men 
cast their eyes on Britain 1 Have we not been despoiled of all our best and 
amplest possessions ? Do we not pay tribute for the remainder ? Do we not, in 






>»■ vII'HILINE.J 


UONDUCA. 


1 <J 


Addition, to both pasturing our cattle and tilling the ground for them, pay also a 
yearly tribute even of our very bodies ? and how much better were it to be sold to 
slavery once for all, than to be ransomed year after year under the delusive name 
of liberty ; how much better to be slain outright and perish, than to bear about a 
head subject to perpetual tribute ? But why say I this ? when even to die is not 
unattended with some claim on their part, for you are aware of what we pay even 
for the deceased. Among other men, indeed, death liberates the slave altogether, 
but to the Bomans alone, the very dead survive for the purposes of lucre ; and, 
moreover, if none of us possess money, and how and whence could we possess it % 
i We are stripped and spoiled like those who are slain ; and what consideration can 
we expect in future, when even at the very outset, a time when all men treat with 
kindness even the beasts they have taken, we have been thus used by them '] 

‘ but to speak the truth, we ourselves have been the cause of all this, we who at 
the first suffered them to land on the island ; and did not immediately drive them 
far away, as we did that Julius Caesar; we, who did not, when they were yet afar 
oft, render even their attempt at landing perilous, as we did to Augustus and Caius 
Caligula. Wherefore, we, possessing so large an island, or rather an insulated con- 
m *- tinent, and occupying a world of our own ; we, who are so completely separated by 
the ocean from all others as to be deemed to inhabit another earth, and to live 
beneath another sky ; we, of whose name the best informed among them knew 
nothing before with any certainty, are dispised and trodden under foot by men 
whose only knowledge is how to cheat others. But if we have not hitherto sc 
done, yet now, oh, countrymen, friends, and relatives, for such I deem you all in- 
:j o habitants of one island, and called by one common name, let us act as become us 
in while we have yet a recollection of liberty, that we may leave both its name and 
at its reality to our children : for if we are wholly forgetful of that blessedness in 
which we have been nurtured, what then will they do who have been nurtured in 
to slavery ? 

‘ I say these things, not that you may abhor the present circumstances, for you 
;at have long abhorred them, nor that you may dread those that are future, for you 
$t) have long dreaded them ; but that I may applaud you for choosing of yourselves 
nd to do all that behoves you, and thank you that you readily succour both me and 
to yourselves. Dread not the Bomans in anywise : for they are neither more in 
nd number nor braver than ourselves : and the proof is, that you are armed with 
ke helmets, breastplates, and greaves, and moreover are provided with stockades, and 
walls, and ditches, so as no longer to suffer from the secret incursions of the 
enemy, for such they prefer making, through their fears, to fighting, as we do 
openly: indeed, we are induced with courage so superior, that we deem our tents 
more secure than their walls, and our shields a better defence than their complete 
armour. Wherefore, when superior in battle we capture them ; when defeated we 
flee far away : and if we choose to retreat to any place, w r e hide ourselves in 
marshes and mountains where we can neither be discovered nor taken; whereas 
they, from the weight of their armour, are neither able to pursue others nor to 
escape themselves ; and should they at any time effect their escape, they could fly 
only to places well known, and there be inclosed as in a toil. In such things 
then they are far inferior to us, as well as in these; that they can neither endure 
hunger nor thirst, nor cold nor heat as we do ; moreover, they stand so much in 
need of shade and shelter, pounded corn, wine, and oil, that if one of these things 
is fail them, they perish ; while to us every herb and root is food, every juice is oil* 
o 3very stream is wine, and every tree an house : again, to us these places are familiar 
d' md friendly, to them strange and hostile; we swim the rivers naked, they can 
n hardly pass them in boats. Wherefore confiding in our good fortune, let us go- 








SO HALF HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [XIPHILINfi. 

against them, and let us shew them that, being hares and foxes, they strive for the 
mastery over dogs and wolves.’ 

Having thus spoken, she let loose a hare from her bosom, using it as a kind oi 
omen ; and when it ran propitiously for them, the whole multitude, rejoicing, gave 
a shout : and Bunduica extending her hand towards heaven, exclaimed : ‘ I give 
thee thanks, Andraste : and I, a female, invoke thee, a female also ; neither ruling 
over the burthen bearing Egyptians, like Nitocris, nor over the Syrian merchants 
like Semirarius, for such things we have already learnt from the Romans, no: 
indeed over the Romans themselves, as did first Messalina, then Agrippina, and a 
present Nero, who has indeed the name of a man, but is in act a woman, a proo 
of which is that he sings and plays on the harp and beautifies his person ; bu 
ruling over British men, unskilled indeed in husbandry or handicraft, but wh 
having thoroughly learned to fight, deeming all other things common, and eve? 
children and wives common also, who in consequence display equal courage w r it' 
their husbands. Reigning, therefore, over such men and such women, I pray am 
entreat thee for victory and security and liberty in their behalf, against men wh 
are revilers, unjust, insatiable, impious ; if forsooth we must give the title of me 
to such as bathe in tepid water, live on dressed meats, drink undiluted wine, anoin 
themselves with spikenard, repose luxuriously, lying with boys and those n 
longer youthful, and are charmed by the strains of an harper, and he a wretche 
one. Let not, then a Noronia or a Domitia tyrannize over me or you ; but lc 
such a songstress rule the Romans, for they deserve to be enslaved to that woma 
whose tyranny they have so long endured; but mavest thou, 0 queen, alone hav 
dominion over us for ever ! 

Having thus harangued, Bunduica led her army against the Romans, who wei 
at that time without a chief, because Paulinus, their commander, was was warrin 
against Mona, a certain island adjacent to Britain. Wherefore she overthrew an 
plundered two Roman cities, and there as I have said, wrought indescribab' 
slaughter : as to the male captives there was no thing of the most dreadful kin 
which was not inflicted upon them. They practised, indeed, whatever was mo. 1 
revolting and savage ; for they hung up their noblest and most beautiful wome 
naked, cut off their breasts, and sewed them to their mouths, that they migl 
appear to be themselves eating them, and afterwards transfixed them at full lengt 
on sharp stakes. And all this was done in mockery, while they were sacrificir 
and banqueting in their several sacred plans, but more especially in the grove < 
Andate, for so they denominated Victory, whom they venerated supremely. 

But it happened that Paulinus had now subdued Mona, and having heard of tl: 
disaster in Britain, he forthwith sailed back thither from Mona : he was unwillir 
indeed to risk the chance of a battle immediately against the barbarians, dreadin 
their number and fury ; wherefore he deferred the conflict to a more fitting oppo 
tunity. But when he was in want of provisions, and the barbarians pressir 
forward, allowed him no respite, he was compelled to attack them contrary to h 
intention. Bunduica, therefore, having an army amounting to two hundred an 
thirty thousand men, herself rode on a car, and drew up the others singl 
Paulinus, however, was neither able to extend his phalanx in opposition to them 
for he could not have equalled them had he drawn up his men singly, so muc 
inferior were they in number ; nor did he dare to engage in one compact body, leg 
he should be surrounded and cut to pieces : he therefore divided his army int 
three bodies, that they might fight in several places at once, and closed up each ( 
the divisions in such wise that they could not be broken through: and, havin 
drawn up and posted them, he exhorted them, saying :— 

1 Come on, fellow soldiers ! Come on, Romans ! Show these pests how much, eve: 






TH1LIXE. 


BOXDUCA. 


21 


hen in desperate circumstances, we surpassed them. It were disgraceful to you 
■gloriously to lose those things now which you have recently obtained by your 
ilour ; for often, truly, when less in number than at present, both you yourselves 
id your fathers have vanquished adversaries far more numerous. Be not alarmed, 
lerefore, at their multitudes nor at their desire of revolt; for they are daring only 
i consequence of their unarmed and inconsiderate rashness ; nor at their having 
^rnt certain of our cities, which they have not taken by force or by battle, for 
le they gained through treachery, and the other was abandoned : but for such 
its now wreak on them becoming vengeance, that they may learn in very deed, 
ho, when compared with themselves, are the men they have injured.’ 

Having thus said to some, he passed on to others, and adressed them : ‘ Now, 
llow soldiers, is the season for exertion and for valour. This day only be 
mrageous, and you will retrieve your losses : for if you conquer these, no others 
ill resist you : by this single battle you will secure your present advantages, an i 
•ing into subjection what remains to be subdued; because all other soldiers, 
herever they may be, will emulate your conduct, and your foes will be daunted : 

> that it being in your hands, either, fearless of all men, to retain whatever your 
thers have left or yourselves have acquired, to be deprived of it altogether ; make 
>ur choice to be free, to rule, to be rich, and to be happy, rather than, through 
>ur want of exertion, to endure the contrary.’ 

Having thus addressed these, he advanced to the third body, and harangued 
em also, after this manner: ‘You have heard what these accursed people have 
>ne to us, or rather, indeed, you have seen some of their actions ; choose, therefore 
iether you will endure the like, and, moreover, retreat wholly from Britain, or 
nquishing them, whether you will both avenge the departed, and afford to all 
her men an example of gracious indulgence to obedience, and of necessary severity 
revolt. Firmly, indeed, do I hope that we shall conquer ; first by the assistance 
the gods, who for the most part succour the injured; then by our native courage, 
ismuch as we are Bomans, and have long excelled all men by our valour : again 

I our experience, for these very persons who now oppose us we have already 
nquished ; lastly by our dignity, for we shall not contend with rivals, but with 
sves whom we have suffered to be free and uncontrolled. However should any 
mg contrary to our hopes arise, for this I will not hesitate to advert to, it is 
tter to die fighting like men than to be captured and impaled, to see our own 
trails torn out and transfixed on burning, stakes, to be wasted away in boiling 
ter, as if we had fallen among certain savage, lawless, unfeeling beasts. Either, 
m, let us subdue them, or let us die on the spot ; we shall have Britain as a 
ispicuous monument, even if all other Bomans are driven from it ; for with our 
lies we shall wholly embrace it for ever.’ 

Having uttered these and similar words, he raised the signal for battle : and 
mediately they advanced towards each other, the barbarians with loud clamour 
1 songs of defiance ; but the Bomans with silence and order, until they came 
bin a javelin’s cast ; when the enemy now proceeding slowly onward, they gave 
signal altogether, according to previous arrangement, and rushed violently upon 
m, and in the shock easily broke through their array ; then being hemmed in 
the multitude, they fought desperately at the same time on all sides. Their 
flict was various, for it was thus : here light-armed opposed light-armed : there 
vy-armed contended with heavy-armed: horse encountered horse: and the 
nan archers fought against the chariots of the barbarians, falling on the Bomans, 
i rthrew them with the rushing of their chariots ; and these, as their men were 
: ting without breastplates, were driven back by the flights of arrows ; horseman 
omfited footman, and footman overthrew horseman ; some, in compact bodies, 








22 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[XLFHIL1NE 




Util 


dashed agaiust the chariots, others dispersed by them ; some, ad\ancin D in tioop. 
against the archers, put them to flight; others saved themselves, y 'ecpnig a oo 
and this occurred not in one, but in three several places at once, bora long whiR ! 
■each contended with equal spirit and boldness. Finally, though late, the Roman « 
conquered ; they kill:d numbers in the fight, and near the waggons, and m a wood 
thev also took many alive. Great numbers, too, escaped and made ready again a I 
If for battle. But about this time Bunduica dying by disease, they bewailed he 
sorely, and buried her with great funeral splendour : and as if they were now real! 
discomfited, they became completely dispersed. 


5.—SCENE FROM BONDUCA, A TRAGEDY. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Enter Bonduca , Daughters, Hengo , Nennius, and Soldiers. 

Bonduca. The hardy Romans ? Oh, ye gods of Britain, 

The rust of arms, the blushing shame of soldiers ! 

Are these the men that conquer by inheritance ] 

The fortune-makers ? these the Julians. 

Enter Caratach. 

That with the sun measure the end of nature, 

Making the world but one Rome, and one Coesar? 

Shame, how they flee ! 

Dare they send these to seek us, 

These Roman girls ? is Britain grown so wanton ? 

Twice we have beat ’em, Nennius, scatter’d ’em; 

And thro’ their big-bon’d Germans, on whose pikes. 

The honour of their actions sits in triumph, 

Made themes for songs to shame ’em : And a woman, 

A woman beat ’em, Nennius ; a weak woman, 

A woman, beat these Romans ! 

Car. So it seems ; 

A. man would shame to talk so. 

Bond. Who’s that ? 

Car. I. 

Bond. Cousin, d’you grieve my fortunes ? 

Car. No, Bonduca; 

If I grieve, ’tis the bearing of your fortunes ; 

You put too much wind to your sail; discretion 
And hardy valour arc the twins of honour, 

And, nurs’d together, make a conqueror ; 

Divided, but a talker. ’Tis a truth, 

That Rome has fled before us twice, and routed ; 

A truth we ought to crown the gods for, lady, 

And not our tongues; a truth is none of ours, 

Nor in our ends, more than the noble bearing ; 

For then it leaves to be a virtue, lady, 

And we that have been victors, beat ourselves, 

When we insult upon our honour’s subject. 

Bond. My valiant cousin, is it foul to say 
What liberty and honour bid us do. 





BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.] THE TRAGEDY OF BONDUCA. £3 

And what the gods allow us ? 

Car. No, Bonduca; 

So what we say exceed not what we do. 

You call the Bomans 1 fearful, fleeing Koreans, 

And Koman girls, the lees of tainted pleasures 
Does this become a doer ! are they such ? 

Bond. They are no more. 

Car. Where is your conquest then ? 

Why are your altars crown’d with wreaths of flowers ? 

The beasts with gilt horns waiting for the fire ? 

The holy Druids composing songs 
Of everlasting life to victory ? 

Why are these triumphs, lady 1 for a May-game ? 

For hunting a poor herd of wretched Romans ? 

Is it no more ? Shut up your temples, Britons, 

And let the husbandman redeem his heifers, 

Put out our holy fires, no timbrel ring, 

Let’s home and. sleep ; for such great overthrows, 

A candle burns too bright a sacrifice, 

A glow-worm’s tail too full of flame. Oh, Nennius, 

Thou hadst a noble uncle knew a Koman, 

And. how to speak him, how to give him weight 
In both his fortunes. 

Bond. By the gods, I think 
You dote upon these Romans, Caratach ! 

Car. Witness these wounds, I do ; they were fairly giv’n: 

I love an enemy ; I was born a soldier ; 

And he that in the head on’s troop defies me, 

Bending my manly body with his sword, 

I make a mistress. Yellow-tressed Hvmen 
Ne’er tied a longing virgin with more joy, 

Than I am married to that man that -wounds me: 

Ana are not all these Roman ? Ten struck battles 
I suck’d these honour’d scars from, and all Roman ; 

Ten years of bitter nights and heavy marches, 

(When many a frozen storm sung thro’ my cuirass, 

And made it doubtful whether that or I 

Were the more stubborn metal) have I wrought thro*. 

And all to try these Romans. Ten times a-night 
I’ve swam the rivers, when the stars of Rome 
Shot at me as I floated, and the billows 
Tumbled their watry ruins on my shoulders, 

Charging my batter’d sides with troops of agues ; 

And still to try these Romans, whom I found 
(And, if I lie, my wounds be henceforth backward, 

And be you witness, gods, and all my dangers) 

As ready, and as full of that I brought, 

(Which was not fear, nor flight) as valiant, 

As vigilant, as wise, to do and suffer, 

Ever advanc’d as forward as the Britons, 

Their sleeps as short, their hopes as high as ours. 

Ay, and as subtle, lady. ’Tis dishonour, 






HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [BEAUMONT & 

And, follow’d, will be impudence, Bonduca, 

And grow to no belief, to taint these Romans. 

Have not I seen the Britons- 

Bond. What ? 

Car. Dishearten’d, 

Run, run, Bonduca! not the quick rack swifter ; 

The virgin from the hated ravisher 

Not half so fearful ; not a flight drawn home, 

A round stone from a sling, a lover’s wish, 

E’er made that haste that they have. By the gods, 

I’ve seen these Britons, that you magnify, 

Run as they would have out-run time, and roaring, 

Basely for mercy roaring ; the light shadows, 

That in a thought scur o’er the fields of corn, 

Halted on crutches to ’em. 

Bond. Oh, ye powers, 

What scandals do I suffer ! 

Car. Yes, Bonduca, 

I’ve seen thee run too ; and thee Nennius 
Yea, run apace, both ; then wdien Penius 
(The Roman girl!) cut thro’ your armed carts, 

And drove ’em headlong on ye, down the hill; 

Then when he hunted thee like Britain foxes, 

More by the scent than sight ; then did I see 
These valiant and approved men of Britain, 

Like boding owls, creep into tods of ivy, 

And hoot their fears to one another nightly, 

Nen. And wdiat did you then Caratach ? 

Car. I fled too, 

But not so fast; your jewel had been lost then, 

Young Hengo there ; he trasht me Nennius : 

For when your fears out-run him, then stept I, 

And in the head of all the Roman fury 
Took him, and, with my tough belt, to my back 
I buckled him ; behind him, my sure shield ; 

And then I follow’d. If I say I fought 
Five times in bringing off this bud of Britain, 

I lie not, Nennius. Neither had you heard 
Me speak this, or ever seen the child more, 

But that the son of Virtue, Penius, 

Seeing me steer thro’ all these storms of danger, 

My helm still in my hand (my sword), my prow 
Turn’d to my foe (my face), he cried out nobly, 

Go, Briton, bear thy lion’s whelp off safely ; 

Thy manly sword has ransom’d thee ; grow strong, 

And let me meet thee once again in arms ; 

Then if thou stand’st tliou’rt mine. I took his offer, 

And here I am to honour him. 

Bond. Oh, cousin, 

From what a flight of honour hast thou check’d me 
What wouldst thou make me, Caratach ] 

Car. See, lady, 




THE TRAGEDY OF BONDUCA. 


25 


BEAUMONT & FLETCHER.] 

The noble use of others in our losses. 

Does this afflict you ? Had the Romans cried this, 

And, as we have done theirs, sung out these fortunes. 

Rail’d on our base condition, hooted at us, 

Made marks as far as th’ earth was ours, to shew us 

Nothing but sea could stop our flights, despis’d us, 

And held it equal whether banqueting 

Or beating of the Britons were more business, 

It would have gall’d you. 

Bond. Let me think we conquer’d. 

Car. Do ; but so think, as we may be conquer’d ; 

And where we have found virtue, tho’ in those 

That came to make us slaves, let’s cherish it. 

1 ' 

There’s not a blow we gave since Julius landed, 

That was of strength and worth, but, like records, 

They file to after-ages. Our registers 
The Romans are, for noble deeds of honour ; 

And shall we brand their mentions with upbraidings ? 

Bond. No more ; I see myself. Thou hast made me, cousin, 
More than my fortunes durst, for they abus’d me, 

And wound me up so high, I swell’d with glory : 

Thy temperance has cur’d that tympany, 

And giv’n me health again ; nay more, discretion. 

Shall we have peace ? for now I love these Romans. 

Car. Thy love and hate are both unwise ones, lady. 

Bond. Your reason ? 

Nen. Is not peace the end of arms ? 

Car. Not where the cause implies a general conquest : 

Had we a diff’rence with some petty isle, 

Or with our neighbours, lady, for our landmarks, 

The taking in of some rebellious lord, 

Or making head against commotions, 

After a day of blood, peace might be argued ; 

But where we grapple for the ground we live on, 

The liberty we hold as dear as life, 

The gods we worship, and next those, our honours, 

And with those swords that know no end of battle : 

Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour ; 

Those minds that where the day is, claim inheritance, 

And where the sun makes ripe the fruits, their harvest, 

And where they march, but measure out more ground 
To add to Rome, and here i’ th’ bowels on us ; 

It must not be. No, as they are our foes, 

And those that must be so until we tire ’em; 

Let’s use the peace of honour, that’s fair dealing, 

But in our ends our swords. 


26 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


* [C. KNIGHT. 


6.—THE DRUIDS. C. Knight. 

( From, ‘ Old England.’) 

The great wonder of Salisbury Plain,—the most remarkable monument of anti¬ 
quity in our island, if we take into account its comparative preservation as well as 
its grandeur,—is Stonehenge. It is situated about seven miles north of Salisbury. 
It may be most conveniently approached from the little town of Amesbury. Pass¬ 
ing by a noble Roman earth-work called the Camp of Vespasian, as we ascend out 
of the valley of the Avon, we gain an uninterrupted view of the und dating downs 
which surround us on every side. The name of Plain conveys an inadequate notion 
of the character of this singular district. The platform is not flat, as might be 
imagined ; but ridge after ridge leads the eye onwards to the bolder hills of the 
extreme distance, or the last ridge is lost in the low horizon. The peculiar character 
of the scene is that of the most complete solitude. It is possible that a shepherd 
boy may be descried watching his flocks nibbling the short thymy grass with which 
the downs are everywhere covered ; but, with the exception of a shed or a hovel, 
there is no trace of human dwelling. This peculiarity arises from the physical 
character of the district. It is not that man is not here, but that his abodes are 
hidden in the little valleys. On each bank of the Avon to the east of Stonehenge, 
villages and hamlets are found at every mile ; and on the small branch of the 
Wyly to the west there is a cluster of parishes, each with its church, in whose 
names, such as Orcheston Maries, and Shrawston Virgo, we hail the tokens of in¬ 
stitutions which left Stonehenge a ruin. We must not hastily conclude, therefore, 
that this great monument of antiquity was set up in an unpeopled region ; and 
that, whatever might be its uses, it was visited only by pilgrims from far-off places. 
But the aspect of Stonehenge, as we have said, is that of entire solitude. The dis¬ 
tant view is somewhat disappointing to to the raised expectation. The hull of a 
large ship, motionless on the wide sea, with no object near by which to measure its 
bulk, appears an insignificant thing: it is a speck in the vastness by which it is 
surrounded. Approach that ship, and the largeness of its parts leads us to estimate 
the grandeur of the whole. So is it with Stonehenge. The vast plain occupies so 
much of the eye that even a large town set down upon it would appear a hamlet. 
But as we approach the pile, the mind gradually becomes impressed with its real 
character. It is now the Chorea Gigantum—the Choir of Giants ; and the tradi¬ 
tion that Merlin the Magician brought the stones from Ireland is felt to be a poeti¬ 
cal homage to the greatness of the work. 

However the imagination may be impressed by the magnitude of those masses of 
stone which still remain in their places, by the grandeur even of the fragments 
confused or broken in their fall, by the consideration of the vast labour required to 
bring such ponderous substances to this desolate spot, and by surmise of the nature 
of the mechanical skill by which they were lifted up and placed in order and pro¬ 
portion, it is not till the entire plan is fully comprehended that we can properly 
surrender ourselves to the contemplations which belong to this remarkable scene. 
It is then, when we can figure to ourselves a perfect structure, composed of such 
huge materials symmetrically arranged, and possessing, therefore, that beauty which 
is the result of symmetry, that we can satisfactorily look back through the dim 
light of history or tradition to the object for which such a structure was destined. 
The belief now appears tolerably settled that Stonehenge was a temple of the 
Druids. It differs, however, from all other Druidical remains, in the circumstance 
that greater mechanical art was employed in its construction, especially in the super¬ 
incumbent stones of the outer circle and of the trilithons, from which it is supposed 








THE DRUIDS. 


27 


C. KNIGHT.] 

to derive its name : stem being the Saxon for a stone, and heng to hang or support. 
From this circumstance it is maintained that Stonehenge is of the very latest ages 
of Druidism ; and that the Druids that wholly belonged to the ante-historic period 
followed the example of those who observed the command of the law: “If thou 
wilt make me an altar of stone, thou shalt not build it of hewn stone : for if thou 
lift up thy tool upon it, thou hast polluted it.” (Exodus, chap, xx.) 

It was long a controversy, idle enough as such controversies generally are, whether 
Stonehenge was appropriated to religious or to civil purposes. If it is to be regarded 
as a Druidical monument, the discussion is altogether needless ; for the Druids 
were, at one and the same time, the ministers of religion, the legislators, the judges 
amongst the people. The account which Julius Ccesar gives of the Druids of Gaul, 
marked as it is by his usual clearness and sagacity, may be received without hesi¬ 
tation as a description of the Druids of Britain : for he says, “ the system of 
Druidism is thought to have been formed in Britain, and from thence carried over 
into Gaul ; and now those who wish to be more accurately versed in it for the 
most part go thither ( i . e. to Britain) in order to become acquainted with it.” 
Nothing can be more explicit than his account of the mixed office of the Druids : 
“ They are the ministers of sacred things ; they have the charge of sacrifices, both 
public and private ; they give directions for the ordinances of religious worship 
(religiones interpretantur). A great number of young men resort to them for the 
purpose of instruction in their system, and they are held in the highest reverence. 
Eor it is they who determine most disputes, whether of the affairs of the state or of 
individuals : and if any crime has been committed, if a man has been slain, if there 
is a contest concerning an inheritance or the boundaries of their lands, it is the 
Druids who settle the matter: they fix rewards and punishments : if any one, 
whether in an individual or public capacity, refuses to abide by their sentence, they 
forbid him to come to their sacrifices. This punishment is among them very 
severe ; those on whom this interdict is laid are accounted among the unholy and 
accursed ; all fiy from them, and shun their approach and their conversation, lest 
they should be injured by their very touch ; they are placed out of the pale of the 
law, and excluded from all offices of honour.” After noticing that a chief Druid, 
whose office is for life, presides over the rest, Coesar mentions a remarkable circum¬ 
stance which at once accounts for the selection of such a spot as Sarum Plain, for 
the erection of a great national monument, a temple, and a seat of justice :— 

“ These Druids hold a meeting at a certain time of the year in a consecrated spot 
in the country of the Oarnutes (people in the neighbourhood of Chartres), which 
country is considered to be in the centre of all Gaul. Hither assemble all from 
every part who have a litigation, and submit themselves to their determination and 
sentence.” At Stonehenge, then we may place the seat of such an assize. There 
were roads leading direct over the plain to the great British towns of Winchester 
and Silchester. Across the plain, at a distance not exceeding twenty miles, was .the 
great temple and Druidical settlement of Avebury. The town and hill-fort of Sarum 
was close at hand. Over the dry chalky downs, intersected by a few streams easily 
forded, might pilgrims resort from all the surrounding country. The seat of justice 
which was also the seat of the highest religious solemnity, would necessarily be 
rendered as magnificent as a rude art could accomplish. Stonehenge might be of a 
later period than Avebury, with its mighty circles and long avenues of unhewn 
pillars ; but it might also be of the same period,—the one distinguished by its 
vastness, the other by its beauty of proportion. The justice executed in that 
judgment-seat was, according to ancient testimony, bloody and terrible. The 
religious rites were debased into the fearful sacrifices of a cruel idolatry. But it is 
impossible not to feel that at the bottom of these superstitions there was a deep 


28 


HALF-KCCRS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C. KNIGHT, 

reverence for what was high and spiritual: that not only were the Druids the in¬ 
structors of youth, but the preservers and disseminators of science, the proclaimers 
of an existence beyond this finite and material world—idolaters, but nevertheless 
teaching something nobler than what belongs to the mere senses, in the midst of 
their idolatry. We give entire what Csesar says of the religious system of this 
remarkable body of men :— 

“ It is especially the object of the Druids to inculcate this—that souls do not 
perish, but after death pass into other bodies ; and they consider that by this 
belief more than anything else men may be led to cast away the fear of death, and 
to become courageous. They discuss, moreover, many points concerning the 
heavenly bodies and their motion, the extent of the universe and the world, the 
nature of things, the influence and ability of the immortal gods ; and they instruct 
the youth in these things. 

“ The whole nation of the Gauls is much addicted to religious observances, and, 
on that account, those who are attacked by any of the more serious diseases, and 
those who are involved in the dangers of warfare, either offer human sacrifices or 
make a vow that they will offer them ; and they employ the Druids to officiate at 
these sacrifices ; for they consider that the favour of the immortal gods cannot be 
conciliated unless the life of one man be offered up for that of another : they have 
also sacrifices of the same kind appointed on behalf of the state. Some have 
images of enormous size, the limbs of which they make of wicker-work, and fill 
with living men, and setting them on fire, the men are destroyed by the flames. 
They consider that the torture of those who have been taken in the commission of 
theft or open robbery, or in any crime, is more agreeable to the immortal gods ; 
but when there is not a sufficient number of criminals, they scruple not to inflict 
this torture on the innocent. 

“ The chief deity whom they worship is Mercury ; of him they have many 
images, and they consider him to be the inventor of all arts, their guide in all their 
journeys, and that he has the greatest influence in the pursuit of wealth and the 
affairs of commerce. Next to him they worship Apollo and Mars, and Jupiter and 
Minerva ; and nearly resemble other nations in their views respecting these, as 
that Apollo wards off diseases, that Minerva communicates the rudiments of manu¬ 
factures and manual arts, that Jupiter is the ruler of the celestials, that Mars is the 
god of war. To Mars, when they have determined to engage in a pitched battle, 
they commonly devote whatever spoil they may take in the war. After the contest, 
they slay all living creatures that are found among the spoil ; the other things they 
gather into one spot. In many states, heaps raised of these things in consecrated 
places may be seen : nor does it often happen that any one is so unscrupulous as 
to conceal at home any part of the spoil, or to take it away when deposited ; a very 
heavy punishment with torture is denounced against that crime. 

“ All the Gauls declare that they are descended from Father Dis (or riuto), and 
this, they say, has been handed down by the Druids: for this reason, they distin¬ 
guish all spaces of time not by the number of days, but of nights ; they so regulate 
their birth-days, and the beginning of the months and years, that the days shall 
come after the night.” * 

The precise description which Caesar has thus left us of the religion of the Druids 
—a religion which, whatever doubts may have been thrown upon the suhject, would 
appear to have been the prevailing religion of ancient Britain, from the material 
monuments which are spread through the country, and from the more durable 

* Coesar de Bell. Gall., lib. vi. Our translation is that of the article “ Britannia,” in the 
Penny Cycloj nedia. 






C. KNIGHT. 


THE DRUIDS. 


29 


records of popular superstitions—is different in some particulars which have been 
supplied to us by other writers. According to Caesar, the Druids taught that the 
soul of man did not perish with his perishable body, but passed into other bodies. 
But the language of other writers, Mela, Diodorus Siculus, and Ammianus Marcel- 
linus, would seem to imply that the Druids held the doctrine of the immortality of 
the soul as resting upon a nobler principle than that described by Caesar. They 
believed, according to the express statement of Ammianus Mareellinus, that the 
future existence of the spirit was in another world. The substance of their religious 
system, according to Diogenes Laertius, was comprised in their three precepts—to 
worship the gods, to do no evil, and to act with courage. It is held by some that 
they had a secret doctrine for the initiated, whilst their ritual observances were 
addressed to the grosser senses of the multitude ; and that this doctrine was the 
belief in one God. Their veneration for groves of oak and for sacred fountains was 
an expresion of that natural worship which sees the source of all good in the beauti¬ 
ful forms with which the earth is clothed. The sanctity of the mistletoe, the 
watch-fires of spring and summer and autumn, traces of which observances still 
remain amongst us, were tributes to the bounty of the All-giver, who alone could 
make the growth, the ripening, and the gathering of the fruits of the earth propitious. 
The sun and the moon regulated their festivals, and there is little doubt formed 
part of their outward worship. An astronomical instrument found in Ireland, is 
held to represent the moon’s orbit and the j)hases of the planets. They wor¬ 
shipped, too, according to Csesar, the divinities of Greece and Borne, such as Mars 
and Apollo: but Csesar does not give us their native names. He probably found 
ascribed to these British gods like attributes of wisdom and of power as those of 
Borne, and so gave them Boman names. Other writers confirm Caesar’s account of 
their human sacrifices. This is the most revolting part of the Druidical supersti¬ 
tion. The shuddering with which those who live under a pure revelation must 
regard such fearful corruptions of the principle of devotion, which in some form or 
other seems an essential part of the constitution of the human faculties, produced 
this description of Stonehenge from the pen of a laborious and pious antiquary, 
Mr. King :—“ Although my mind wais previously filled with determined aversion, 
and a degree of horror, on reflecting upon the abominations of which this spot 
must have been the scene, and to which it even gave occasion, in the later periods 
of Druidism, yet it was impossible not to be struck, in the still of the evening, 
whilt the moon’s pale light illumined all, with a reverential awe, at the solemn ap¬ 
pearance produced by the different shades of this immense group of astonishing 
masses of rock, artificially placed, impending over head with threatening aspect, 
bewildering the mind with the almost inextricable confusion of their relative situa¬ 
tions with respect to each other, and from their rudeness, as well as from their 
prodigious bulk, conveying at one glance all the ideas of stupendous greatness that 
could well be assembled together.” And yet the “ determined aversion and degree 
of horror” thus justly felt, and strongly expressed, might be mitigated by the con¬ 
sideration that in nations wholly barbarous the slaughter of prisoners of war is 
indiscriminate, but that the victim of the sacrifice is the preserver of the mass. 
If the victims thus slain on the Druidical altars were culprits sacrificed to offended 
justice, the blood-stained stone of the sacred circle might find a barbarous parallel 
in the scaffold and the gibbet of modern times. Even such fearful rites, if con¬ 
nected with something nobler than the mere vengeance of man upon his fellows, 
are an advance in civilization, and they are not wholly inconsistent with that rude 
cultivation of our spiritual being which existed under the glimmerings of natural 
impulses, before the clear light of heaven descended upon the earth. 

The Druidical circles in their uniformity of character present the indubitable 


30 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTCRl, 


C. KNlOrHT. 


evidence that they were symbolical of the mysteries of the prevailing religion of the 
country. They were essentially religious edifices. They were probably, at the 
same time, what the Icelandic writers call Doom rings, or Circles of Judgment. 
That these monuments, in association with religious rites and solemn decisions, had 
a deep influence upon the character of our rude forefathers, we cannot reasonably 
doubt. They were a bold and warlike race, an imaginative race, not placing the 
sole end of existence in the consumption of the fruits of the earth, but believing 
in spiritual relations and future existences. Degrading as their superstitions might 
be, and blind their notions of the future, their belief was not a mere formal and 
conventional pretence; it was a principle operating upon their actions. We have 
the express testimony of an ancient poet to this effect of the old worship of this 
land. Lucan, in a noble passage in the first book of the Pharsalia, addresses the 
Druids in the well known lines beginning “Et vos barbaricos.” The translation of 
Howe is generally quoted : but it appears to us that the lines are rendered with 
more strength and freedom by Kennett, who translated the poetical quotations in 
Gibson’s edition of Camden’s ‘ Britannia :’ 

' “ And you, 0 Druids, free from noise and arms, 

Renew’d your barbarous rites and horrid charms. 

What Gods, what powers in happy mansions dwell, 

Or only you, or all but you can tell. 

To secret shades, and unfrequented groves, 

From world and cares your peaceful tribe removes. 

You teach that souls, eas’d of their mortal load, 

Nor with grim Pluto make their dark abode, 

Nor wander in pale troops along the silent flood, 

But on new regions cast resume their reign, 

Content to govern earthy frames again. 

Thus death is nothing but the middle line 
Betwixt what lives will come, and what have been. 

Happy the people by your charms possess’d! 

Nor fate, nor fears, disturb their peaceful breast. 

On certain dangers unconcern’d they run, 

And meet with pleasur^what they would not shun; 

Defy death’s slighted power, and bravely scorn 
To spare a life that will so soon return.” 

In reading this remarkable tribute to the national courage of our remote ancestors 
let us not forget that this virtue, like all other great characteristic virtues of a com¬ 
munity, was based upon a principle, and that the principle, whatever might be its 
errors, rested upon the disposition of man to believe and to reverence. 


7. —SEVEEUS. Xiphilixe. 

(From the Translation in the ‘Monumenta Historica Britannica.’) 

Among the Britons the two greatest tribes are the Caledonians and the Mseatee ; 
for even the names of the others, as may be said, have merged in these. The 
Msoatae dwell close to the wall which divides the island into two parts ; the Cale¬ 
donians beyond them. Each of these people inhabit mountains wild and water¬ 
less, and plains desert and marshy, having neither wall nor cities nor tilth, but 
living by pasturage, by the chace, and on certain berries ; for of their fish, though 
abundant and inexhaustible, they never taste. They live in tents, naked and bare- 






SEVERUS. 


31 


XIPHILINE.] 

footed, having wives in common, and rearing the whole of their progeny, Their 
state is chiefly democratical, and they are above all things delighted by pillage ; 
they fight from chariots, having small swift horses ; they fight also on foot, are 
very fleet when running, and most resolute when compelled to stand : their arms 
consist of a shield and a short spear, having a brazen knob at the extremity of the 
shaft, that when shaken it may terrify the enemy by its noise : they use daggers 
also ; and are capable of enduring hunger, thirst, and hardships of every descrip¬ 
tion : for when plunged in the marshes they abide there many days, with their 
heads only out of water, and in the woods they subsist on bark and roots ; they 
prepare for all emergencies a certain kind of food, of which if they eat only so much 
as the size of a bean, they neither hunger nor thirst. Such then is the island 
Britannia, and such the inhabitants of that part of it which is hostile to us ; for it 
is an island, and so, as I have said, at that time was it clearly ascertained to be : 
its length is seven thousand one hundred and thirty-two stadia ; its greatest breadth 
two thousand three hundred and ten, its least three hundred. 

Of this island very little more than one half is ours. Severus, therefore, being 
anxious to subjugate the whole, advanced into Caledonia ; and, in traversing the 
country, underwent indescribable labour in cutting down woods, levelling hills, 
making marshes passable, constructing bridges over rivers ; for he fought not a 
single battle, nor did he see any army in array. The enemy moreover threw sheep 
and oxen in our track, on purpose that the soldiers might seize them, and thus, 
being enticed farther onward, might be worn out by their sufferings. From the 
waters too they suffered dreadfully, and ambuscades were laid for them when dis¬ 
persed. And if no longer able to proceed, they were dispatched by their very 
comrades, lest they should be taken ; so that by these means to the amount of 
fifty thousand of them perished. Still, however, Severus desisted not until he had 
nearly reached the extremity of the island, and most carefully examined the parallax 
of the sun, and the length of the days and nights both in summer and winter. And 
so, borne, as one may say, throughout the whole hostile district, for truly he was 
for the greater part carried in a covered litter on account of his weakness, he came 
again into the friendly part of it, having compelled the Britons to a treaty on the 
condition that they should yield up no small portion of their territory. 

Antoninus also was cause of much grief to him—and had even laid plots against 
him—and once when they went together against the Caledonians, that they might 
disarm them, and confer about treaties, Antoninus openly endeavoured to kill him 
with his own hand. They had gone out on horses, for Severus, although the soles 
of his feet had been punctured on account of disease, was nevertheless on horse¬ 
back, and the rest of his army was following, and that of the enemy also was in 
sight. At this very juncture, Antoninus silently and dexterously checking his 
horse, drew nis sword, intending to strike his father in the back ; but his com¬ 
panions observing this, shouted out; and being thus startled at the noise, he de- , 
sisted from his purpose. Severus also turned round at their clamour, and saw the 
sword, although he uttered not a word : but having ascended a tribunal, and per¬ 
formed whatever was incumbent on him, he returned to his tent. 

But the islanders again revolting, having called together his soldiers, he ordered 
them to advance into their country, and to kill whomsoever they might meet there, 
making use of these words :— 

Of these let none escape destruction dire, 

Nor of your hands elude the vengeful ire ; 

Let not the babe within his mother’s womb, 

Babe tho’ he be, avoid the mournful doom. 




a 2 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [XIPHILINE. 


Which being done, and the Caledonians having joined the Mreatoe in revolt, he made 
ready as if going in person to war against them. But, while he was thus engaged, 
disease carried him off'on the fourth of February ; Antoninus, as it is said, in a 
measure contributing to his death. . . . After this his body, laid out in military 
order, was placed upon a funeral pile, and honourably attended both by the soldiers 
and his sons. Such of those present as had military offerings cast them on the 
pyre, and the flame was kindled by his sons. Lastly, his bones being deposited in 
an urn of porphyry, were carried to Rome, and placed in the sepulchre of the 
Antonines. . . . 

_ 

THE SUBJECT CONTINUED. HeRODIAR. 

(From the Translation in the ‘Monumenta Historica Britannica.’) 


While Severus grieved at the dissolute life of his sons, and their unbecoming 
attachment to public spectacles, he received letters from the prefect of Britain 
relating that the barbarians there were in a state of insurrection, overrunning the 
country, driving off booty, and laying every thing waste ; so that for the defence of 
the island there was need either of greater force, or of the presence of the emperor 
himself. Severus heard this with pleasure, by nature a lover of glory, and anxious, 
after his victories in the east and north and his consequent titles, to obtain a trophy 
from the Britons : moreover, willing to withdraw his sons from Rome, that they 
might grow up in the discipline and sobriety of a military life, far removed from 
the blandishments and luxury prevalent in Rome, he orders an expedition against 
Britain, although now old, and labouring under an arthritic affection ; but as to 
his mind, he was vigorous beyond any youth. For the most part he performed the 
march carried in a litter, nor did he ever continue long in one place. Having 
completed the journey with his sons, and crossed over the sea more quickly than 
could be described or expected, he advanced against the Britons, and having drawn 
together his soldiers from all sides, and concentrated a vast force, he prepared for 
the war. 

The Britons, much struck with the sudden arrival of the emperor, and learning 
that such a mighty force was collected against them, sent ambassadors, sued for 
peace, and were willing to excuse their past transgressions. But Severus, purposely 
seeking delay that he might not again return to Rome without his object, and, 
moreover, desirous to obtain from Britain a victory and a title, sent away their 
ambassadors without effecting their purpose, and prepared all things for the contest. 
He more especially endeavoured to render the marshy places stable by means of 
causeways, that his soldiers, treading with safety, might easily pass them, and, 
having firm footing fight to advantage. For many parts of the British country, 
being constantly flooded by the tides of the ocean, become marshy. In these the 
natives are accustomed to swim and traverse about being immersed as high as their 
waists : for going naked as to the greater part of their bodies, they contemn the 
mud. Indeed they know not the use of clothing, but encircle their loins and necks 
with iron ; deeming this an ornament and evidence of opulence, in like manner as 
other barbarians esteem gold. But they puncture their bodies with pictorial forms 
of every sort of animals ; on which account they wear no clothing, lest they should 
hide the figures on their body. They are a most warlike and sanguinary race, 
carrying only a small shield and a spear, and a sword girded to their naked bodies. 
Of a breast-plate or an helmet they know not the use, esteeming them as an impe¬ 
diment to their progress through the marshes ; from the vapours and exhalations of 
which the atmosphere in that country always appears dense. 

Against such things, therefore, Severus prepared whatever could be serviceable to 
the Roman army, but hurtful and detrimental to the designs of the barbarians. And 









HERODIAN.] 


BEVERUS. 


S3 

when every thing appeared to him sufficiently arranged for the war, leaving his 
younger son, named Geta, in that part of the island which was subjugated to the 
Romans, for the purpose of administering justice and directing other civil matters 
of the government, giving him as assessors the more aged of his friends ; and 
taking Antoninus with himself, he led the way against the barbarians. His army 
having passed beyond the rivers and fortresses which defended the Roman territory, 
there were frequent attacks and skirmishes, and retreats on the side of the barba¬ 
rians. To these, indeed, flight was an easy matter, and they lay hidden in the 
thickets and marshes through their local knowledge ; all which things being adverse 
to the Romans, served to protract the war. 

But a sickness of longer continuance than usual now seized Severus in his 
advanced age : so that he himself was compelled to remain inactive, and purposed 
to send Antoninus to direct military matters. Antoninus however cared little 
about the barbarians, but endeavoured to conciliate the soldiery. He persuaded 
all to look up to him alone, grasped at the empire by every possible method, and 
heaped up accusations against his brother. That his father for so long a time 
should thus linger and make but slow advances towards death, appeared to him 
tedious and vexatious ; he therefore persuaded the physicians and attendants to 
treat him in such manner as might rid him of the old man as soon as possible. 
At length, however, and even then chiefly worn out by vexation, Severus expired; 
having lived more gloriously as to military matters than any of the emperors. For 
no one before him could claim so many civic triumphs over domestic enemies, or 
foreign over barbarians. And having reigned eighteen years, he died, and was 
succeeded by his sons; to whom he left treasure to such an amount as no one 
before had done, and an army which none could resist. 

Antoninus on the death of his father, becoming possessed of the imperial power, 
commenced forthwith the work of slaughter, beginning from his own household. 

Antoninus, therefore, when his attempt with the military failed, making a truce 
with the barbarians, and granting them peace, and receiving pledges of fidelity, 
left the hostile country, and proceeded to his mother and his brother. ... In 
this manner both directing the affairs of the government, they resolved, with equal 
dignity, to loose from Britain : and they proceeded to Rome, carrying with them 
the remains of their father. For, having committed his body to the flames, and 
cast the ashes, together with spices, into an urn of alabaster, they conveyed them 
to Rome, that they might deposit these sacred reliques in the imperial sepulchre. 
Transporting their army, therefore, and now become the conquerors of the Britons, 
they crossed the ocean, and arrived in the opposite coast of Gaul. 


8.—PERSECUTION OF DIOCLETIAN. ALBAN. Bede. 

* 

In the year of the incarnation of our Lord, 286, Diocletian, the thirty-third 
Emperor from Augustus, chosen by the army, reigned twenty years, and created 
Maximinianus, surnamed Herculius, his companion in the empire. In their time 
one Carausius, of very mean birth, but an expert and able soldier, being appointed 
to guard the sea-coasts, then infested by the Francs and Saxons, acted more to the 
prejudice than to the advantage of the Commonwealth, not restoring the booty 
taken from the robbers to the owners, but keeping all to himself, became sus¬ 
pected ; that by his neglect he permitted the enemy to infest the frontiers. Being 
therefore ordered by Maximian to be put to death, he took upon him the Imperial 
robes, and possessed himself of Britain, which having most valiantly retained and 
asserted for the space of seven years, he was at length put to death by the treachery 

D 



34 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[BEDE. 

of his associate Albertus. He having thus got the island from Carausius, held it 
three years, and was suppressed by Asolepiodotus, the captain of the Pretorian 
bands, who thus at the end of ten years recovered Britain. In the meantime 
Diocletian in the east, and Maximinianus Herculius in the west, the tenth time from 
Nero, commanded the churches to be destroyed, and the Christians to be slain ; 
the which persecution was more lasting and bloody, than all the others before it ; 
for it was carried on the space of ten years incessantly, with burning of Churches, 
outlawing of innocent persons, and slaughter of martyrs. At length, it also honoured 
Britain with much glory of devoutly confessing God. 

At that time suffered St. Alban, of whom the priest Fortunatus, in the praise of 
virgins, when he made mention of the blessed martyrs that came to the Lord from 
all parts of the world, says, 

Albanum egregium fsecunda Britannia profert. 

That is, 

Fruitful Britain holy Alban yields. 

This Alban being yet a Pagan, at the time when the commands of perfidious princes 
raged against Christians, gave entertainment in his house to a certain clergyman, 
flying from the persecutors, observing him wholly addicted to continual prayer, 
and watching day and night; on a sudden the divine grace shining on him, he 
begaD to admire his example of faith and piety, and being leisurely instructed by 
his wholesome admonitions, casting off the darkness of idolatry, he became a Chris¬ 
tian in all sincerity of heart. The aforesaid clergyman having been some days 
entertained by him, it came to the ears of the wicked prince, that the confessor of 
Christ, to whom the place of martyrdom had not been yet appointed, was concealed 
at Alban’s house. Whereupon he presently ordered soldiers to make a strict search 
after him. When they came to the martyr’s house, St. Alban immediately pre¬ 
sented himself to the soldiers, instead of his guest and master, in-his habit, or the 
long coat he wore, and was led bound before the judge. It happened that the 
judge, at the time when Alban was carried before him, was standing at the altar, and 
offering sacrifice to devils. When he saw Alban, being much enraged for that he 
had presumed of his own accord to put himself into the hands of the soldiers, and 
run. that danger for his guest; he commanded him to be dragged to the images of 
devils, before which he stood, saying, “ Because you have chosen to conceal a re¬ 
bellious and sacrilegious person, rather than to deliver him up to the soldiers, that 
the contemner of the gods might suffer the penalty due to his blasphemy, you shall 
undergo all the punishment that was due to him, if you depart from the worship 
of our religion.” But St. Alban, who had voluntarily declared himself a Christian 
to the persecutors of the faith, was not at all daunted at the prince’s threats, but 
being armed with the armour of the spiritual warfare, publicly declared, that he 
would not obey his commands. Then said the judge, “ Of what family or race are 
you?” “What does it concern you,” answered Alban, “of what stock I am? 
But if you desire to hear the truth of my religion, be it known to you, that I am 
now a Christian, and addicted to Christian duties.” “ I ask your name,” said the 
judge, “ which tell me immediately.” “ I am called Alban by my parents,” replied 
he, “ and ever worship and adore the true and living God, who created all things.” 
Then the judge inflamed with anger, said, “ If you will enjoy the happiness of 
eternal life, do not delay to offer sacrifice to the great gods.” Alban rejoined, 
“ These sacrifices which by you are offered to devils, neither can they avail the 
subjects, nor answer the wishes or desires of those that offer up their supplications 
to them. On the contrary, whosoever shall offer sacrifice to these images, shall 
receive the everlasting pains of hell for his reward.” The judge hearing these 


BEDE.] PERSECUTION OF DIOCLETIAN-ALBAN. 35 

words, and being much incensed, ordered the holy confessor of God to be scourged 
by the executioners, believing he might by stripes shake that constancy of his 
heart, on which he could not prevail by words. He being most cruelly tortured,, 
bore the same patiently, or rather joyfully, for our Lord. When the judge per¬ 
ceived that he was not to be overcome by tortures, or withdrawn from the worship 
of the Christian religion, he ordered him to be put to death. Being led to execu¬ 
tion, he came to the river, which was divided, at the place where the stroke was to 
be given him, with a wall and sand, the stream being most rapid. He there saw 
a multitude of persons of both sexes, and of several ages and conditions, which was 
doubtless assembled by divine instinct, to attend the most blessed confessor and 
martyr, and had so taken up the bridge on the river, that he could scarce pass over 
that evening. At length, almost all being gone out, the judge remained in the city 
without attendance. St. Alban, therefore, whose mind was possessed with an 
ardent devotion to arrive quickly at martyrdom, drew near to the stream, and 
lifting up his eyes to heaven, the channel being immediately dried up, he perceived 
that the water had departed and given way for him to pass. The executioner who 
was to have put him to death, observing this among the rest, hastened to meet him 
at the place of execution, being moved by divine inspiration, and casting down the 
sword which he had carried, ready drawn, fell down at his feet, earnestly praying, 
that he might father suffer with, or for the martyr, whom he was ordered to exe¬ 
cute. Whilst he of a persecutor was become a companion in the truth and faith, 
and the sword being laid down, there was some hesitation among the executioners, 
the most reverend confessor of God ascended the hill with the throng, the which 
decently pleasant agreeable place is almost five hundred paces from the river, em¬ 
bellished with several sort of flowers, or rather quite covered with them ; wherein 
there is no part upright, or steep, nor any thing craggy, but the sides stretching 
out far about is levelled by nature like the sea, which of old it had rendered worthy 
to be enriched with the martyr’s blood for its beautiful appearance. On the top 
of this hill, St. Alban prayed that God would give him water, and immediately a 
living spring broke out before his feet, the course being confined, so that all men 
perceived, that even the stream had been subservient to the martyr. Nor could 
it be that the martyr should ask water, which he had not left in the river, on the 
high top of the hill, had he not been sensible that it was convenient. That river 
having performed the service, and fulfilled the devotion, returned to its natural 
course, leaving a testimony of its obedience. The most courageous martyr having 
his head struck off, received there the crown of life, which God has promised to 
those that love him. But he who gave the wicked stroke, was not permitted to 
rejoice over the deceased ; for his eyes dropped upon the ground together with the 
blessed martyr’s head. At the same time was also beheaded there the soldier, 
who before, through the divine admonition, refused to give the stroke to the holy 
confessor of God. Of whom it is apparent, that though he was not regenerated by 
baptism, yet he was cleansed by the washing of his own blood, and rendered 
worthy to enter the kingdom of heaven. The judge, then astonished at the novelty 
of so many heavenly miracles, ordered the persecution to cease immediately, be¬ 
ginning to honour the death of the saints, by which he before thought they might 
have been diverted from the devotion of the Christian faith. The blessed Alban 
suffered on the tenth day of the Kalends of July, near the city of Verolam, which 
is now by the English nation called Uverlamacestir, or Uvarlingacester, where 
afterwards, when peaceable Christian times were restored, a church of wonderful 
workmanship, and suitable to his martyrdom, was erected. In which place, there 
ceases not to this day the cure of sick persons, and the frequent working of wonders. 
At the same time suffered Aaron and Julius, citizens of Chester, and many mere 


36 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[BEDE. 

of both sexes in several places ; who having endured sundry torments, and their 
limbs torn after an unheard of manner, sent their souls by perfect combat to the 
joys of the heavenly city. 


SONNET.—ST. ALBAN. WOKDSWOETH. 

Lament! for Diocletian’s fiery sword 
Works busy as the lightning ; but instinct 
With malice ne’er to deadliest weapon link’d, 

Which God’s ethereal storehouses afford : 

Against the followers of the incarnate Lord 
It rages ;—some are smitten in the field— 

Some pierced beneath the ineffectual shield 
Of sacred home;—with pomp are others gored 
And dreadful respite. Thus was Alban tried, 

England’s first martyr, whom no threats could shake. 

Self-offer’d victim, for his friend he died, 

And for the faith—nor shall his name forsake 
That hill, whose flowery platform seems to rise 
By nature decked for holiest sacrifice. 


9.—THE LAST ROMANS. 

From that time the south part of Britain, being left destitute 
of all sorts of martial stores, and of all its active youth, which 
the rashness of the tyrants, never returned home, was wholly exposed to rapine, as 
being totally ignorant of the use of weapons. At length, on a sudden it groaned 
and languished many years under two very savage foreign nations, the Scots from 
the west, and the Piets from the north. We call these foreign nations not for 
their being seated out of Britain, but because remote from that part of it, which 
was possessed by the Britons; two inlets of the sea lying betwixt them, one of 
which runs in far and broad into the lands of Britain, from the eastern ocean, and 
the other from the western, though they do not reach to touch one another. The 
eastern has in the midst of it the city Guidi. The western has on it, that is, on 
the right hand thereof, the city Alcluith, which in their language signifies the rock 
Cluith, for it is close by the river of that name. On account of the irruptions of 
these nations, the Britons sending messengers to Rome with letters in mournful 
manner, prayed for succours, and promised perpetual subjection, provided, that the 
impending enemy might be drove farther off. An armed legion was immediately 
sent them, which arriving in the island, and engaging the enemy, slew a great mul¬ 
titude of them, drove the rest out of the territories of the allies, and having 
delivered them from most cruel oppression, advised to build a wall between the two 
seas, across the island, that it might secure them, and keep off the enemy ; and 
thus returned home with great triumph. The islanders, raising the wall they had 
been directed, not of stone, but sods, as having no artist capable of such a work, 
made it of no use. However they drew it for many miles between the two bays or 
inlets of the seas, we have spoken of; to the end that where the defence of the 
water was wanting, they might defend their borders from the irruptions of the 
enemies, by the help of the rampart. Of which work there erected, that is, of a 
rampart of an extraordinary breadth and height, there are evident remains to be 
seen to this day. It begins at almost two miles distance from the monastery of 





Bede. 


armed soldiers, 
ing led away by 




BEDE.] THE LAST ROMANS. 37 

iEbercuring (Abercuring) on the west, at the place in the Pictish language, called 
Peanfahel, but in the English tongue, Pennelture, and running to the eastward, ends 
by the city Alcluith. But the former enemies, when they perceived that the 
Roman soldiers were gone, immediately coming by sea, broke into the borders, 
bearing all down before them, and as if it had been ripe corn mowed, trampled and 
overrun all places. Hereupon messengers are again sent to Rome, imploring aid 
in mournful manner, lest their wretched country should be utterly extirpated, and 
the name of a Roman province so long renowned among them, being overthrown by 
the wickedness of foreign nations, might grow contemptible. A legion is sent 
again, which arriving unexpected in autumn, made great slaughter of the enemy, 
obliging all those that could escape to fly beyond the seas, whereas before, they 
were wont yearly to carry off their booty without any opposition. Then the Romans 
declared to the Britons, that they could not for the future undertake such trouble¬ 
some expeditions for their, sake, advising them rather to handle their weapons, and 
undertake the charge of engaging their enemies, who would not prove more powerful 
than themselves, unless they were dejected with cowardice ; and in regard, that 
they thought it might be some help to their allies, whom they designed to abandon 
they built a strong stone wall from sea to sea in a straight line between the town? 
that had been there built for fear of the enemy, and where Severus had cast up 
the trench. The which wall still famous, and to be seen, they built at the public 
and private expense, being assisted by a number of Britons, eight foot in breadth 
and twelve in height, in a straight line from east to west, as is still visible to the 
beholders. That being finished they gave that dispirited people notable advice, 
with patterns to furnish them with arms. Besides they built towers on the sea 
coast to the southward, at proper distances, where their ships were, because there 
also the irruptions of the barbarians were apprehended, and so took leave of their 
friends, as never to return again. They being gone home, the Scots and Piets, 
understanding that they had declared they would come no more, speedily returned, 
and growing more confident than they had been before, secured to themselves all 
the northern and farthest part of the island, as far as the wall. Hereupon a 
timorous guard was placed upon the top of the wall, where they pined away day 
and night with fearful hearts. On the other side the enemy plied them with 
hooked weapons, by which the cowardly defendants being miserably dragged off the 
wall, were dashed against the ground. In short, forsaking their cities and wall, 
they fled, and were dispersed. The enemy pursues, the slaughter increases, more 
cruel than all the former ; for the wretched natives were torn in pieces by their 
enemies, as lambs are by wild beasts. Thus being expelled their dwellings and 
small possessions, they supplied their imminent danger of famishing, by robbing 
and plundering one another, adding to their calamities occasioned by foreigners 
by their domestic broils, till the whole country was left destitute of all sorts of food 
except the support of wild beasts. 


10.—SILCHESTER. C. Knight, 

(From 1 Old England.’) 

In 1837 a plan was exhibited to the Society of Antiquaries, reduced from a 
survey made in 1835, by students of the senior department of the Royal Military 
College at Sandhurst, of a portion of the Roman road from London to Bath. The 
survey commences close by Staines ; at which place, near the pillai "which marks 
the extent of the jurisdiction of the city of London, the line of road is held to have 
ciossed the Thames Below Staines, opposite to Laleham, there are the remains of 



38 


half-hours of English history. 


C. KNIGHT. 

encampments , and these again are in the immediate neighbourhood of the ford at 
which Caesar crossed the Thames. All the country here about, then, is full of 
associations with the conquerors of the world : and thus, when the “ contemplative 
man” is throwing his fly or watching his float in the gentle waters between Staines 
and Walton, he may here find a local theme upon which his reveries may fruitfully 
rest. The more active pedestrian may follow this Roman road, thus recently 
mapped out, through populous places and wild solitudes, into a country little 
traversed in modem times; but, like all unhackneyed ways, full of interest to the 
lover of nature. The survey has gone far to establish two disputed points,—the 
situation of the Roman Pontes , and whether Silchester should be identified with 
Vindonum or Calleva. A very able correspondent of the Society of Antiquaries, 
Mr. Kempe, thus observes upon the value of the labours of the students of the 
Military College :—The survey has effected a material correction of Horsley, for 
it shows that the station Pontes , which he places at Old Windsor, and for which 
so many different places have been assigned by the learned in Roman topography, 
must have been where the Roman road from London crosses the Thames at Staines. 

.The line of road presents no place for the chief city of the Attre- 

bates until it arrives at the walls of Silchester. Is this, then, really the Calleva 
Attrebatum 1 The distance between Pontes and Calleva, according to the Itine¬ 
rary [of Antoninus], is twenty-two miles ; by the Survey, the distance between 
Staines and Silchester is twenty-six ; a conformity as near as can be required, for 
neither the length of the Roman mile nor the mode of measuring it agreed pre¬ 
cisely with ours.” The tourist may reach Silchester by an easier route than over 
the straight line of the Roman Highway. It is about seven miles from Basing¬ 
stoke, and ten from Reading ; tc either of which places he may move rapidly from 
London, by the South-Western or the Great Western Railway. 

If we have walked dreamingly along the narrow lanes w r hose hedge-rows shut 
out any distant prospect, we may be under the eastern walls of Silchester before we 
are aware that any remarkable object is in our neighbourhood. We see at length 
a church, and we ascend a pretty steep bank to reach the churchyard. The church¬ 
yard wall is something very different from ordinary walls,—a thick mass of mortar 
and stone, through which a way seems to have been forced to give room for the 
little gates that admit us to the region of grassy graves. A quiet spot is this 
churchyard ; and we wonder where the tenants of the sod have come from. There 
is one sole farm-house near the church; an ancient farm-house with gabled roofs 
that tell of old days of comfort and hospitality. The church, too, is a building of 
interest, because of some antiquity ; and there are in the churchyard two very 
ancient Christian tombstones of chivalrous times, when the sword, strange contra¬ 
diction, was an emblem of the cross. But these are modern things compared with 
the remains of which we are in search. We pass through the churchyard into an 
open space, where the farmer’s ricks tell of the abundance of recent cultivation. 
These may call to our mind the story which Camden has told :—“ On the ground 
whereon this city was built (I speak in Nennius’s words) the emperor Constantius 
sowed three grains of corn, that no person inhabiting there might ever be poor.” 
We look around, and we ask the busy thatchers of the ricks where are the old 
walls ; for we can see nothing but extensive corn-fields, bounded by a somewhat 
higher bank than ordinary,—that bank luxuriant with oak, and ash, and springing 
underwood. The farm labourers know what we are in search of, and they ask us 

if we want to buy any coins—for whenever the heavy rains fall they find coins_ 

and they have coins, as they have been told, of Romulus and Remus, and this was 
a great place a long while ago. It is a tribute to the greatness of the place that to 
whomsoever w r e spoke of these walls, and the area within the walls, they called it 



SILCHESTER. 


39 


C. KNIGHT.] 

the city. Heie was a city, of one church and one farm-house. The people who 
went to that church lived a mile or two off in their scattered hamlets. Silence 
reigned in that city. The ploughs and spades of successive generations had gone 
over its ruins ; but its memory still lived in tradition ; it was an object to be 
venerated. There was something mysterious about this area of a hundred acres, 
that rendered it very different to the ploughman’s eye from a common hundred 
acres. Put the plough as deep as he would, manure the land with every care of 
the unfertile spots,' the crop was not like other crops. He knew not that old 
Leland, three hundred years ago, had written, “ There is one strange thing seen 
there, that in certain parts of the ground within the walls the corn is marvellous 
fair to the eye, and, ready to show perfecture, it decayeth.” He knew not that a 
hundred years afterwards another antiquary had written, “ The inhabitants of the 
place told me it had been a constant observation amongst them, that though the 
soil here is fat and fertile, yet in a sort of baulks that cross one another the corn 
never grows so thick as in other parts of the field” (Camden). He knew from his 
own experience, and that was enough, that when the crop came up there were lines 
and cross lines from one side of the whole area within the walls to the other side, 
■which seemed to tell that where the lines ran the corn would not freely grow. The 
lines were mapped out about the year 1745. The map is in the King’s Library in 
the British Museum. There can be no doubt that the country-people of Camden’s 
time were right with regard to these “ baulks that cross one another.” He says, 
“ Along these they believe the streets of the old city to have run.” Camden tells 
us further of the country-people, “ They very frequently dig up British [Roman] 
tiles, and great plenty of Roman coins, which they call Onion pennies, from one 
Onion, whom they foolishly fancy to have been a giant, and an inhabitant of this 
city.” Speaking of the area within the walls, he says, “ By the rubbish and ruins 
the earth is grown so high, that I could scarcely thrust myself through a passage 
which they call Onion’s Hole, though T stooped very low.” The fancy of the foolish 
people about a giant has been borne out by matters of which Camden makes no 
mention. “ Nennius ascribes the foundation of Silchester to Constantius, the son 
of Constantine the Great. Whatever improvements he might have made in its 
buildings or defences, I cannot but think it had a much earlier origin : as the chief 
fastness or forest stronghold of the Segontiaci, it probably existed at the time of 
Caesar’s expedition into Britain. The monymous geographer of Ravenna gives it a 
name which I have not yet noticed, kxd-oneon; this is a pure British compound, 
and maybe read Ardal-Onion, the region of Einion, or Onion” (‘ Archseologia,’ 
1837). It is thus here, as in many other cases, that when learning, despising tradi¬ 
tion and common opinion, runs its own little circle, it returns to the point from 
which it set out, and being inclined to break its bounds, finds the foolish fancies 
which it has despised not always unsafe, and certainly not uninteresting, guides 
through a more varied region. 

By a broader way than Onion’s Hole we will get without the walls of Silchester. 
There is a pretty direct line of road through the farm, from east to west, which 
nearly follows the course of one of the old streets. Descending the broken bank, 
we are under the south-western wall. As we advance in a northerly direction, the 
walls become more distinctly associated with the whole chaiacter of the scene. 
Cultivation here has not changed the aspect which this solitary place has worn for 
centuries. We are in a broad glade, sloping down to a ditch or little rivulet, with 
a bold bank on the outer side. We are in the fosse of the city, with an interval of 
some fifty or sixty feet between the walls and the vallum. The glass of this glmde 
is of the rankest luxuriance. The walls, sometimes entirely hidden by bramble 
and ivy,—sometimes bare, and exhibiting their peculiar construction, sometimes 


40 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C. KNIGHT. 

fallen in great masses, forced down by the roots of mighty trees, which have shared 
the ruin that they precipitated,—sometimes with a gnarled oak actually growing 
out of their tops,—present such a combination of picturesqueness as no pencil can 
reach, because it can only deal with fragments of the great mass. The desolation 
of the place is the most impressive thing that ever smote our minds with a new 
emotion. We seem alone in the world ; we are here amidst the wrecks of ages ; 
tribes whose names and localities are matters of controversy, have lived here before 
the Romans, for the Romans did not form their cities upon such a plan. The 
Romans have come here, and have mixed with the native people. Inscriptions 
have been found here : one dedicated to the Hercules of the Segontiaci, showing 
that this place was the Caer Segont of the Britons ; another in honour of Julia 
Domna, the second wife of the Emperor Severus. Splendid baths have been dug 
up within the walls ; there are the distinct remains of a forum and a temple. In 
one spot so much coin has been found, that the place goes by the name of Silver 
Hill. The city was the third of British towns in extent. There is an amphitheatre 
still existing on the north-eastern side of the wall, which tells us that here the 
amusements of ancient Rome were exhibited to the people. History records that 
here the Roman soldiers forced the imperial purple upon Constantine, the rival of 
Honorius. The monkish chroniclers report that in this city was King Arthur in- 
uugurated. And here, in the nineteenth century, in a country thickly populated, 
—more abundant in riches, fuller of energy than at any other period,—intersected 
with roads in all directions,—lies this Silchester, which once had its direct com¬ 
munications with London, with Winchester, with Old Sarum, the capital doubtless 
of a great district,—here it lies, its houses and its temples probably destroyed by 
man, but its walls only slowly yielding to that power of vegetable nature which 
works as surely for destruction as the fire and sword, and topples down in the 
course of centuries what man has presumed to build for unlimited duration, 
neglected, unknown, almost a solitary place amidst thick woods and bare heaths. 
It is an ingenious theory which derives the supposed Roman name of this place 
from the great characteristic of it which still remains : “ The term Galleva, oi 
Calleva, of the Roman Itineraries, appears to have had the same source, and was 
but a softened form of the British Gual Vawr, or the Great Wall; both names had 
their root perhaps in the Greek x<& L C (silex), whence also the French CaUlon (a 
pebble), tfife-chester or Silchester is therefore but a Saxonizing, to use the term 
of Silicis Castrum, the Fortress of the Flint or Wall, by the easy metonymy which 
I have shown.” ( c Arcliaeologia,’ 1837.) The striking characteristic of Silchester 
is the ruined wall, with the flourishing trees upon it and around it, and the old 
trees that have grown up centuries ago, and are now perishing with it. This is the 
poetry of the place, and the old topographers felt it after their he nest fashion. 
Leland says, “ On that wall grow some oaks of ten cart-load the piece.” Camden 
says, “ The walls remain in good measure entire, only with some few gaps in those 
places where the gates have been ; and out of those walls there grow oaks of such 
a vast bigness incorporated as it were with the stones, and their roots and boughs 
are spread so far around, that they raise admiration in all who behold them.” 

“ High towns, fair temples, goodly theatres, 

Strong walls, rich porches, princely palaces, 

Large streets, brave houses, sacred sepulchres, 

Sure gates, sweet gardens, stately galleries, 

Wrought with fair pillars and fine imageries ”— 

ye are fallen. Fire has consumed you ; earth is heaped upon you ; the sapling oak 
has sprung out of the ashes of your breathing statues and your votive urns, and 






SILCHESTER. 


41 


C. KNIGHT.] 

having flourished for five hundred years, other saplings have rooted themselves in 
your ruins for another five hundred years, and again other saplings are rising—so 
to flourish, and so to perish. Time, which has destroyed thee, Silchester, clothes 
thee with beauty. “ Time loves thee 

“ He, gentlest among the thralls 
Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid 
His lenient touches.” 

Mr. John Rickman, speaking of Silchester, “ the third of British towns in ex¬ 
tent,” says, “ that the Romanized inhabitants of the last-named town were dis¬ 
tinguished by their cultivated taste, is testified by the amphitheatre outside the 
walls, one of the few undisputed relics of that kind in Britain.” (‘ Archseologia,” 
vol. xxviii.) Whether the presence of the inhabitants of Silchester at the brutal 
games of the Romans be any proof of their cultivated taste may be reasonably 
questioned ; but the existence of the amphitheatre is an evidence that the Roman 
•customs were here established, and that the people had become habituated to them. 
The amphitheatre at Silchester is situated without the walls, to the north-east. 
There can be no doubt about the form and construction of this relic of antiquity. 
We stand upon a steep circular bank covered with trees, and descend by its sloping 
sides into an area of moderate dimensions. Some describers of this place tell us 
that the seats were ranged in five rows, one above the other. Earlier, and perhaps 
more accurate observers, doubt whether seats were at all used in these turfy amphi¬ 
theatres. “ It is well known that the Romans originally stood at games, till luxury 
introduced sitting; and it is observable, that the Castrensian amphitheatres in 
general preserve no signs of subsellia, or seats; so that the people must have stood 
on the grassy declivity. I saw no signs of seats in that of Carleon, nor in the 
more perfect one near Dorchester, as Stukeley has also observed. Nor do I recol¬ 
lect that any such have been discovered in any other Castrensian amphitheatre, at 
least in our island, where they seem to have been rather numerous.” (Mr. Strange, 
in ‘ Archseologia,’ vol. v.) The very perfect amphitheatre at Dorchester is much 
larger than that of Silchester, Stukeley having computed that it was capable of 
containing twenty-three thousand people. The form, however, of both amphitheatres 
is precisely similar. Their construction was different. The bank of the amphi¬ 
theatre at Silchester is composed of clay and gravel ; that at Dorchester of blocks 
of solid chalk. These were rude structures compared with the amphitheatres of 
those provinces of Rome which had become completely Romanized. Where the 
vast buildings of this description were finished with architectural magnificence, the 
most luxurious accommodation was provided for all ranks of the people. Greece 
and Britain exhibit no remains of these grander amphitheatres, such as are found 
at Nismes and at Verona. The amphitheatre of Pompeii, though of larger dimen¬ 
sions than the largest in England, Dorchester appears to have been constructed 
upon nearly the same plan as that. Some bas-reliefs found at Pompeii indicate the 
nature of the amusements that once made the woods of Silchester ring with the 
bowlings of infuriated beasts and the shouts of barbarous men. 




42 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


(BURKE. 


BOOK II. 

ANGLO-SAXON PEKIOD. 


11.— THE COMING OF THE SAXONS. 


Bures. 


After having been so long subject to a foreign dominion, there was among the 
Britons no royal family, no respected order in the state, none of those titles to 
government confirmed by opinion and long use, more efficacious than the wisest 
schemes for the settlement of the nation. Mere personal merit was then the only 
pretence to power. But this circumstance only added to the misfortunes of a 
people, who had no orderly method of election, and little experience of merit in any 
of the candidates. During this anarchy, whilst they suffered the most dreadful 
calamities from the fury of barbarous nations, which invaded them, they fell into 
that disregard of religion, and those loose disorderly manners, which are sometimes 
the consequence of desperate and hardened wretchedness, as well as the common 
distempers of ease and prosperity. 

At length, after frequent elections and deposings, rather wearied out by their 
own inconstancy than fixed by the merit of their choice, they suffered Vortigern 
to reign over them. This leader had made some figure in the conduct of their 
wars and factions. But he was no sooner settled on the throne, than he shewed 
himself rather like a prince born of an exhausted stock of royalty in the decline of 
empire, than one of those bold and active spirits, whose manly talents obtain them 
the first place in their country, and stamp upon it that character of vigour essen¬ 
tial to the prosperity of a new common-wealth. However, the mere settlement, in 
spite of the ill administration of government, procured the Britons some internal 
repose, and some temporary advantages over their enemies the Piets. But having, 
been long habituated to defeats, neither relying on their king nor on themselves, 
and fatigued with the obstinate attacks of an enemy, whom they sometimes checked, 
but could never remove, in one of their national assembhes, it was resolved to call 
in the mercenary aid of the Saxons, a powerful nation of Germany, which had 
been long by their piratical incursions terrible not only to them, but to all the 
adjacent countries. This resolution has been generally condemned. It has been 
said, that they seem to have through mere cowardice, distrusted a strength not yet 
worn down, and a fortune sufficiently prosperous. But as it was taken by general 
counsel and consent, we must believe, that the necessity of such a step was felt, 
though the event was dubious. The event indeed might be dubious ; in a state 
radically weak, every measure vigorous enough for its protection must endanger its 
existence. 

There is an unquestioned tradition among the northern nations of Europe, im¬ 
porting that all that part of the world had suffered a great and general revolution 
by a migration from Asiatick Tartary of a people, whom they call Asers. These 
every where expelled or subdued the ancient inhabitants of the Celtick and Cim- 
brick original. The leader of this Asiatick army was called Odin, or Wodin ; first 
their general, afterwards their tutelar deity. The time of this great change is lost 
in the imperfection of traditionary history, and the attempts to supply it by fable. 
It is however certain that the Saxon nation believed themselves the descendants of 
those conquerors ; and they had as good a title to that descent as any other of the 





THE COMING OF THE SAXONS. 


BURKE.] 


43' 


northern tribes; for they used the same language, which then was, and is still, 
spoken with small variations of the dialects in all the countries, which extend from 
the polar circle to the Danube. This people most probably derive their name, as 
well as their origin, from the Sacae, a nation of the Asiatick Scythia. At the time 
of which we write, they had seated themselves in the Cimbrick Chersonesas, or 
Jutland, in the countries of Holstein and Sleswick, and thence extended along the 
Elbe and Weser to the coast of the German ocean, as far as the mouths of the 
Rhine. In that tract they lived in a sort of loose military commonwealth of the 
ordinary German model under several leaders, the most eminent of whom was 
Hengist, descended from Odin, the great conductor of the Asiatick colonies. It 
was to this chief that the Britons applied themselves. They invited him by a 
promise of ample pay for his troops, a large share of their common plunder, and 
the isle of Thanet for a settlement. 

The army, which came over under Hengist, did not exceed fifteen hundred men. 
The opinion, which the Britons had entertained of the Saxon prowess, was well 
founded ; for they had the principal share in a decisive victory, which was obtained 
over the Piets soon after their arrival, a victory, which for ever freed the Britons 
from all terror of the Piets and Scots, but in the same moment exposed them to an 
enemy no less dangerous. 

Hengist and his Saxons, who had obtained by the free vote of the Britons that 
introduction into this island they had so long in vain attempted by arms, saw that 
by being necessary they were superior to their allies. They discovered the character 
of the king ; they were eye witnesses of the internal weakness and distraction of 
the kingdom. This state of Britain was represented with so much effect to the 
Saxons in Germany, that another and much greater embarkation followed the first; 
new bodies daily crowded in. As soon as the Saxons began to be sensible of their 
strength, they found it their interest to be discontented ; they complained of 
breaches of a contract, which they construed according to their own designs ; and 
then fell rudely upon their unprepared and feeble allies, who, as they had not been 
able to resist the Piets and Scots, were still less in a condition to oppose that force, 
by which they had been protected against those enemies, when turned unexpectedly 
upon themselves. Hengist, with very little opposition, subdued the province of 
Kent, and there laid the foundation of the first Saxon kingdom. Every battle the 
Britons fought only prepared them for a new defeat by weakening their strength, 
and displaying the inferiority of their courage. Vertigern, instead of a steady and 
regular resistance, opposed a mixture of timid war and unable negotiation. In one 
of their meetings, wherein the business, according to the German mode, was carried 
on amidst feasting and riot, Vortigern was struck with the beauty of a Saxon 
virgin, a kinswoman of Hengist, and entirely under his influence. Having married 
her, he delivered himself over to her councils. 

His people harassed by their enemies, betrayed by their prince, and indignant 
7 a t the feeble tyranny that oppressed them, deposed him, and set his son Vortimer 
' j n his place. But the change of the king proved no remedy for the exhausted state 
of the nation, and the constitutional infirmity of the government. . For even if the 
Britons could have supported themselves against the superior abilities and efforts of 
Hengist, it might have added to their honour, but would have contributed little to 
their safety. The news of his success had roused all feaxony. Five gieat hodie&> of 
that adventurous people, under different and independent commandeis, ^ery nearly 
at the same time broke in upon as many different parts of the island. They came 
no longer as pirates, but as invaders. Whilst the Britons contended with one body 
of their fierce enemies, another gained ground, and filled with slaughter and desolation 
the whole country from sea to sea. A devouring war, a dreadful famine, a plague, 


44 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [BURKB. 

the most wasteful of any recorded in our history, united to consummate the ruin of 
Britain. The ecclesiastical writers of that age, confounded at the view of those 
complicated calamities, saw nothing but the arm of God stretched out for the 
punishment of a sinful and disobedient nation. And truly when wo set before us 
in one point of view the condition of almost all the parts, which had lately composed 
the Western Empire, of Britain, of Gaul, of Italy, of Spain, of Africa, at once over¬ 
whelmed by a resistless inundation of most cruel barbarians, whose inhuman method 
of war made but a small part of the miseries, with which these nations were afflicted, 
we are almost driven out of the order of political enquiry : we are in a manner 
compelled to acknowledge the hand of God in those immense revolutions, by which, 
at certain periods, he so signally asserts his supreme dominion, and brings about 
that great system of change, which is, perhaps, as necessary to the moral as it is 
found to be in the natural world. 

But whatever was the condition of the other parts of Europe, it is generally 
agreed that the state of Britain was the worst of all. Some writers have asserted, 
that except those who took refuge in the mountains of Wales and in Cornwall, or 
fled into Armorica, the British race was in a manner destroyed. What is extraordi¬ 
nary we find England in a very tolerable state of population in less than two 
centuries after the first invasion of the Saxons ; and it is hard to imagine either 
the transplantation, or the increase, of that single people to have been, in so short a 
time, sufficient for the settlement of so great an extent of country. Others speak 
of the Britons not as extirpated, but as reduced to a state of slavery ; and here 
these writers fix the origin of personal and predial servitude in England. 

I shall lay fairly before the reader all I have been able to discover concerning the 
existence or condition of this unhappy people. That they were much more broken 
and reduced than any other nation, which had fallen under the German power, I 
think may be inferred from two considerations : first, that in all other parts of 
Europe the ancient language subsisted after the conquest, and at length incorporated 
with that of the conquerors ; whereas in England the Saxon language received little 
or no tincture from the Welsh ; and it seems, even among the lowest people, to 
have continued a dialect of pure Teutonick to the time in which it was itself 
blended with the Norman. Secondly, that on the continent the Christian religion, 
after the northern irruptions, not only remained, but flourished. It was very early 
and universally adopted by the ruling people. In England it was so entirely extin¬ 
guished, that, when Augustine undertook his mission, it does not appear that among 
all the Saxons there was a single person professing Christianity. 

The sudden extinction of the ancient religion and language appears sufficient to 
shew that Britain must have suffered more than any of the neighbouring nations on 
the continent. But it must not be concealed, that there are likewise proofs that 
the British race, though much diminished, was not wholly extirpated ; and that 
those who remained, were not, merely as Britons, reduced to servitude. For they 
are mentioned as existing in some of the earlier Saxon laws. In these laws they 
are allowed a compensation on the footing of the meaner kind of English • and 
they are even permitted, as well as the English, to emerge out of that low*rank 
into a more liberal condition. This is degradation, but not slavery. The affairs of 
that whole period are, however, covered with an obscurity not to be dissipated 
The Britons had little leisure, or ability, to write a just account of a war, by which 
they were ruined. And the Anglo-Saxons, who succeeded them, attentive only to 
arms, were, until their conversion, ignorant of the use of letters. 


We add the following extracts from “ The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle,'- -a brief record of 




BURKE.] THE COMING OF THE SAXONS. 43 

events, which existed in the time of King Alfred. It was first printed in 1644 from a MS. 
in the Cottonian Collection. 

A. 449.—This year Martianus and Valentinus succeeded to the empire, and 
reigned seven years. And in their days Hengest and Horsa, invited by Wyrtgeoone, 
king of the Britons, landed in Britain, on the shore which is called Ypwinesfleet; 
at first in aid of the Britons, but afterwards they fought against them. King 
Wyrtgeoone gave them land in the south-east of this country, on condition that 
they should fight against the Piets. Then they fought against the Piets, and had 
the victory wheresoever they came. They then sent to the Angles ; desired a 
larger force to be sent^ and caused them to be told the worthlessness of the Britons, 
and the excellencies of the land. Then they soon sent hither a larger force in aid 
of the others. At that time there came men from three tribes of Germany ; from 
the Old-Saxons, from the Angles, from the Jutes. From the Jutes came the Kentish 
men and the men of Wight, that is the tribe which now dwells in Wight, and that 
race among the West Saxons which is still called the race of Jutes. From the 
Old-Saxons came the men of Essex and Sussex and Wessex. From Anglia, which 
has ever since remained waste betwixt the Jutes and Saxons, came the men of 
East Anglia, Mercia, and all North-humbria. Their leaders were two brothers 
Hengest and Horsa : they were the sons of Wihtgils ; Wihtgils son of Witta, Witta 
of Wecta, Wecta of Woden ; from this Woden sprang all our royal families, and 
those of the South-humbrians also. 

A. 455.—This year Hengest and Horsa fought against King Wyrtgeoone at the 
place which is called iEgelsthress, and his brother Horsa was there slain, and after 
that Hengest obtained the kingdom, and iEsc his son. 

A. 457.—This year Hengest and iEsc his son fought against the Britons at the 
place which is called Crecganford, and there slew four thousand men; and the 
Britons then forsook Kent, and in great terror fled to London. 

A. 465.—This year Hengest and iEsc fought against the Welsh near Wippeels- 
fleet, and there slew twelve Welsh ealdormen, and one of their own thanes was 
slain there, whose name was Wippeel. 

A. 473._This year Hengest and iEsc fought against the Welsh, and took spoils 

innumerable ; and the Welsh fled from the Angles like fire. 


12.—DESTRUCTION OF THE ROMAN CIVILIZATION. 

Guizot. 

M. Guizot, in his ‘ History of Civilization in France,’ has some general remarks on the 
consequences that followed the overthrow of the Roman power by barbarian tribes. These 
apply to the constitution of England as well as to that of France; and we therefore extract 
the following from Mr. Hazlitt’s translation. 

It seems to me that people commonly form to themselves a very false idea of 
the invasion of the barbarians, and of the extent and rapidity of its effects. You 
have, in your reading upon this subject, often met with the words inundation, 
earthquake , conflagration. These are the terms which have been employed to 
characterize this revolution. I think that they are deceptive, that they in no way 
represent the manner in which this invasion occurred, nor its immediate results. 
Exaggeration is natural to human language; words express the impressions which 
man receives from facts, rather than the facts themselves ; it is after having passed 
through the mind of man, and according to the impressions which they have pro¬ 
duced thereupon, that facts are described and named. But the impression is 




46 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [GUIZOT. 

never the complete and faithful image of the fact. In the first place, it is indivi¬ 
dual, which the fact is not ; great events, the invasion of a foreign people, for in* 
stance, are related by those who have been personally affected, as victims, actors, 
or spectators : they relate the event as they have seen it ; they characterize it ac¬ 
cording to what they have known or undergone. He who has seen his house or 
his village burnt, will, perhaps, call the invasion a conflagration : to the thought of 
another, it will be found arrayed in the form of a deluge or an earthquake. These 
images are true, but are of a truth which, if I may so express myself, is full of 
prejudice and eg .ism ; they reproduce the impressions of some few men ; they are 
net expressions of the fact in its entire extent nor of the manner in which it im¬ 
pressed the whole of the country. 

Such, moreover, is the instinctive poetry of the human mind, that it receives 
from facts an impression which is livelier and greater than are the facts themselves; 
it is its tendency to extend and ennoble them ; they are for it but matter which it 
fashions and forms, a theme upon which it exercises itself, and from which it 
draws, or rather over which it spreads beauties and effects which were not really 
there. Thus, a double and contrary cause fills language with illusion ; under a 
material point of view, facts are greater than man, and he perceives and describes 
of them only that which strikes him personally ; under the moral point of view, 
man is greater than facts ; and, in describing them, he lends them something of 
his own greatness. 

This is what we must never forget in studying history, particularly in reading 
contemporary documents ; they are at once incomplete and exaggerated ; they omit 
and amplify : we must always distrust the impression conveyed by them, both as 
too narrow and as too poetical ; we must both add to and take from it. Nowhere 
does this double error appear more strongly than in the narratives of the Germanic 
invasion ; the words by which it has been described in no way represent it. 

The invasion, or rather, the invasions, were events which were essentially partial, 
local, and momentary. A band arrived, usually far from numerous ; the most 
powerful, those who founded kingdoms, as the band of Clovis, scarcely numbered 
from five thousand to six thousand men ; the entire nation of the Burgundians did 
not exceed sixty thousand men. It rapidly overran a limited territory ; ravaged a 
district ; attacked a city, and sometimes retreated, carrying away its booty, and 
sometimes settled somewhere, always careful not to disperse itself too much We 
know with what facility and promptitude such events accomplish themselves and 
disappear. Houses are burnt, fields are devastated, crops carried off, men killed or 
led away prisoners : all this evil over, at the end of a few days the waves close, the 
ripple subsides, individual sufferings are forgotten, society returns, at least in ap* 
pearance, to its former state. This was the condition of things in Gaul during the 
fourth century. 

But we also know that the human society, that society which we call a people, is 
not a simple juxta-position of isolated and fugitive existence: were it nothing more, 
the invasions of the barbarians would not have prduced the impression which the 
documents of the epoch depict; for a long while the number of places and men 
that suffered therefrom was far inferior to the number of those who escaped. But 
the social life of each man is not concentrated in the material space which is its 
theatre, nor in the passing moment; it extends itself to all the relations which he 
has contracted upon different points of the land ; and not only to those relations 
which he has contracted, but also to those which he might contract, or can even conceive 
the possibility of contracting ; it embraces not only the present, but the future ; 
man lives in a thousand spots which he does not inhabit, in a thousand moments 
which, as yet, are not; and if this development of his life is cut off from him if he 




DESTRUCTION OF THE ROMAN CIVILIZATION. 


47 


•GUIZOT.] 

is forced to confine himself to the narrow limits of his material and actual existence, 
to isolate himself in space and time, social life is mutilated, and society is no more. 

And this was the effect of the invasions, of those apparitions of barbarous 
hordes, short, it is true, and limited, but reviving without cessation, everywhere 
possible, and always imminent: they destroyed, 1st, all regular, habitual, and easy 
correspondence between the various parts of the territory ; 2nd, all security, all 
sure prospect of the future ; they broke the ties which bound together the inhabi¬ 
tants of the same country, the moments of the same life ; they isolated men, and 
the days of each man. In many places, and for many years, the aspect of the 
country might remain the same ; but the social organization was attacked, the 
members no longer held together, the muscles no longer played, the blood no longer 
circulated freely or surely in the veins : the disease appeared sometimes at one 
point, sometimes at another: a town was pillaged, a road rendered impassable, a 
bridge destroyed ; such or such a communication ceased ; the culture of the land 
became impossible in such or such a district: in a word, the organic harmony, the 
general activity of the social body, were each day fettered and disturbed ; each day 
dissolution and paralysis made some new advance. 

Thus was Roman society destroyed in Gaul ; not as a valley is ravaged by a 
torrent, but as the most solid body is disorganized by the continual infiltration of 
a foreign substance. Between all the members of the state, between all the moments 
of the life of each man, the barbarians continually intruded themselves. I lately 
endeavoured to paint to you the dismemberment of the Roman empire, the impos¬ 
sibility under which its masters found themselves of holding together the different 
parts, and how the imperial administration was obliged to retire spontaneously from 
Britain, from Gaul, incapable of resisting the dissolution of that vast body. What 
occurred in the Empire occurred equally in each province ; as the Empire had 
suffered disorganization, so did each province ; the cantons, the towns detached 
themselves, aad returned to a local and isolated existence. The invasion operated 
everywhere in the same manner, and everywhere produced the same effects. All 
the ties by which Rome had been enabled, after so many efforts, to combine together 
the different parts of the world ; that great system of administration, of'imposts, of 
recruiting, of public works, of roads, had not been able to support itself. There 
remained of it nothing but what could subsist in an isolated and local condition, 
that is to say, nothing but the wrecks of the municipal system. The inhabitants 
shut themselves up in the towns, where they continued to govern themselves nearly 
as they had done of old, with the same rights, by the same institutions. A thousand 
circumstances prove this concentration of society in towns ; here is one which has 
been little noticed. Under the Roman administration, it is the governors of 
Provinces, the consuls, the correctors, the presidents who fill the scene, and appear 
/continually in the laws and history ; in the sixth century, their names become 
I much more rare ; we, indeed, still meet with dukes and counts, to whom the govern- 
' ment of the provinces was confided ; the barbarian kings strove to inherit the Roman 
administration, to preserve the same officers, and to induce their power to flow in the 
t same channels ; but they succeeded only very incompletely, and with great disorder 
their dukes were rather military chiefs than administrators ; it is manifest that 
the governors of provinces had no longer the same importance, and no longer played 
the same part ; the governors of towns now filled history ; the majority of tliesa 
counts of Chilperic, of Gontran, of Theodebert, whose exactions are related by Gregory 
of Tours, are counts of towns established within their walls, and by the side of their 
bishop. I should exaggerate were I to say that the province disappeared, but it 
became disorganized, and lost all consistency, and almost all reality. The towns, 
the primitive elements of the R-oman world, survived almost alone amidst its ruin. 




48 half-hours of English history. guizot. 

The rural districts became the prey of the barbarians, it was there that they 
established themselves with their men ; it was there that they were about to intro¬ 
duce by degrees totally new institutions, and a new organization, but till then the 
rural districts will occupy scarcely any place in society, they will be but the theatre 
of excursions, pillages, and misery. 

Even within the towns the ancient society was far from maintaining itself strong 
and entire. Amidst the movement of the invasions, the towns were regarded above 
all as fortresses ; the population shut themselves thereinto escape from the hordes 
which ravaged the country. When the barbarous immigration was somewhat 
diminished, when the new people had planted themselves upon the territory, the 
towns still remained fortresses : in place of having to defend themselves against 
the wandering hordes, they had to defend themselves against their neighbours, 
against the greedy and turbulent possessors of the surrounding country. There 
was therefore little security behind those weak ramparts. Towns are unquestion¬ 
ably centres of population and of labour, but under certain conditions ; under the 
condition, on the one hand, that the country population cultivate for them ; on 
the other, that an extended and active commerce consume the products of the 
citizen’s labour. If agriculture and commerce decay, towns must decay; their 
prosperity and their power cannot be isolated. Now you have just seen into what 
a condition the rural districts of Gaul had fallen in the sixth century ; the towns 
were able to escape for some time, but from day to day the evil threatened to con¬ 
quer them. Finally, it did conquer them, and very soon this last wreck of the 
Empire seemed stricken with the same weakness, and a prey to the same dissolution. 


13.—THE HEPTARCHY. 

The following says * The Penny Cyclopaedia,' were the kingdoms founded by the several 
invading bands, the dates being those assigned in the valuable summaries of Anglo-Saxon 
history, given by Sir F. Palgrave, in his Appendix of Proofs and Illustrations to his Pise and 
Progress of the English Commonwealth , p. ccxxix—cccxl:— 


1. Kent, consisting of the present county of that name, founded by Hengist and 
Horsa, whose followers were Jutes, a.d. 457. From .Esc or Eric, the son and suc¬ 
cessor of Hengist, the kings of Kent acquired the name of ASscingas. Kent sub¬ 
sisted as an independent state till its conquest by Cenwulf, king of Mercia, in 796. 
In 823 it was finally annexed to Wessex by Egbert; but for at least a century 
after that date it is still mentioned as a separate though subordinate kingdom. 

2. Sussex, consisting of the present county of that name, founded by Ella, whose 
followers were Saxons, a.d. 491. In a.d. 686 it was conquered by Ceadwalla, king 
of Wesfeex, and appears to have remained ever after in subjection either to that l 2 3 ' 
state or to Mercia. In 828 it finally submitted to ‘Egbert;’ and ‘from this 
period,’ says Sir F. Palgrave, ‘Sussex and Surrey appear to have been considered as 
integral portions of the empire of Wessex, but as annexed to the kingdom of Kent 
and passing with it.’ 

3. Wessex, including (in its greatest extent) Surrey, Hants with the Isle of 
Wight, Berks, Wilts, Dorset, Somerset, Devon, and part of Cornwall, founded by 
Cerdic and his son Cynric, whose followers were Saxons, a.d. 519. The Jutes of 
the Isle of Wight were conquered by Cerdic and Cynric, a.d. 530 ; but in 661 the 
island was wrested from Wessex by Wulfere, king of Mercia ; some time after which 
it appears to have asserted its independence, which it maintained under kino’s of 
its own till the beginning of the 10th century, when it submitted to Edward the 




THE HEPTARCHY. 


49 


PALSGRAVE.] 

Elder. In the reign of Egbert (a.d. S00—836) the kingdom of Wessex attained a 
supremacy over the other states, which it never lost afterwards. 

4. Essex, including the present counties of Essex and Middlesex, and the 
southern part of Hertfordshire, supposed to have been founded by ^Escwin, or 
Ercenwine, whose followers were Saxons, a.d. 527. ‘It is doubtful,’ says Sir F 
Palgrave, ‘ whether this monarchy ever enjoyed independence.’ It certainly be¬ 
came subject to Mercia in the course of the seventh century, and in 823 it finally ' 
submitted to Egbert of Wessex. 

5. Northumbria, consisting of the sometimes separate but commonly united states 
of Bernicia and Deira ; the former (from the native name Bryneich) including the 
county of Northumberland, and the south-eastern counties of Scotland as far as the 
Forth, founded by Ida, whose followers were Angles, ad. 547; the latter (from the 
native name Deifyr) including the counties of Cumberland, Durham, Westmore¬ 
land, York, and Lancaster, founded by Ella, whose followers were also Angles, a.d. 
560. These two states appear to have coalesced before the beginning of the 
seventh century ; and after the year 655 they were never separated, so long as 
they retained their independence. The limits of the kingdom of Northumbria to 
the north varied greatly from time to time according to the fortunes of the almost 
Constant warfare which it carried on with the Scots, the Piets, and the kingdom of 
Strathclyde. From the middle of the eighth century the history of Northumbria 
consists of little else than a detail of civil dissensions, confusion, and bloodshed, 
arising from the claims of rival competitors for the throne. The Northumbrians 
made a formal submission to Egbert of Wessex in 829. In 867 the country was 
conquered by the Danes; and from this time it may be considered to have remained 
independent under princes of Danish race till 924, when both the Danes and the 
English inhabitants acknowledged the supremacy of Edward the Elder. Northum¬ 
bria, however, continued to be governed by princes of its own, who, although nomi¬ 
nally subject to the English monarch, took the title of kings, till 952. After this 
its rulers were only designated earls ; the district forming sometimes one earldom, 
sometimes two, under the names of Bernicia and Deira, or Northumbria and York. 
It was not till some time after the Norman conquest that the territories which had 
formed this Saxon state came to be considered as strictly included within the realm 
of England. 

6. East Anglia, including Norfolk, Suffolk, Cambridge, and part of Bedfordshire, 
founded by Uffa, whose followers were Angles, and from whom the kings of this 
state took the name of Uffingas, a.d. 571. The East Angles placed themselves 
under the sovereignty of Egbert of Wessex about the year 823, but they continued 
for some time after this under the immediate government of their own kings. The 
pekntry was conquered by the Danes in 883 ; and it was not completely brought 

jftek under the subjection to the English crown till after the accession of Athel- 
Itane in 925. From this time it appears to have been governed by ealdermen or 
Cukes. 

7. Mercia, including the counties of Chester, Derby, Nottingham, Lincoln, 
Xhropshire, Stafford, Leicester, Rutland, Northampton, Huntingdon, Hereford, 
Worcester, Warwick, Gloucester, Oxford, Buckingham, and parts of Hertford and 
Bedford, said to have been founded by Crida, whose followers were Angles, a.d. 
585. The name Mercia has been derived, by Camden and others, from the word 
mearc, a limit ; ‘ for the other kingdoms,’ it is said, ‘ bordered upon it.’ Lingard 
thinks that the people were called Mercians, ‘ perhaps from the marshy district in 
which they first settled.” The most probable explanation, however, appears to be 
that given by Macpherson, in his ‘Annals of Commerce,’ who observes that the 
Saxon name Myrcnaric properly signifies the woodland kingdom, ‘ which,’ he adds, 

E 





50 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[PALSGRAVE. 


4 agrees very closely with Coitani , the Latinized name of the old British inhabitants, 
signifying woodland-men, or foresters.’ About the middle of the seventh century 
Mercia was conquered by Oswio, king of Northumbria ; but after a few years it re¬ 
covered its independence ; and before the end of the next century it had reduced 
to subjection both the neighbouring states of East Anglia and Kent. It was event 
ually subjugated however about the year 825, by Egbert of Wessex, and although 
for some time considered as a separate kingdom, it continued ever after dependent 
upon that state, with the exception of a short period in the latter part of that cen¬ 
tury, during which it was overrun and taken possesion of by the Danes. 

This assemblage of states has been commonly called the Heptarchy, for which 
Mr. Turner has proposed to substitute the Octarchy, on the ground that Deira and 
Bernicia ought to be considered as two distinct kingdoms. But in truth it may be 
doubted if there ever was a time when so many as seven of the states co-existed 
separately and independently. Various small districts also appear to have for 
longer or shorter periods preserved an all but nominal independence in the midst of 
the larger states, to some one or other of which they were severally considered as 
annexed. Such were the Isle of Wight; the Suthrige, or Southern Kingdom, now 
Surrey ; the district of Hwiccas, or Magesettam, which was conterminous with the 
antient bishopric of Worcester ; and others, of which the annals have been for the 
first time collected by Sir Francis Palgrave. But above all it would be difficult to 
show that either term is perfectly admissible, if it be intended to imply (as in 
strict propriety both heptarchy and octarchy would seem to do) that the several 
itates were all connected together into any sort of union or confederacy ; that they 
formed, in fact, any political system entitled to be designated by one word at all. 
We know that they were constantly at war with one another, and of the existence 
of any general controlling authority, except such as one king was occasionally 
enabled to maintain over the rest by his sword, their history affords no trace. To 
certain of the kings however by whom this temporary supremacy appears to have 
been asserted in the most marked manner, Bede, and after him, the Saxon Chro¬ 
nicle, have attributed the title of Bretwalda, that is, as it has been interpreted, 
Wielder or Emperor of Britain ; and it is probable that a species of superior honour 
and dignity, such as this title would imply, may have been claimed by the princes 
in question, and accorded to them by those of their neighbours whom they had 
brought under subjection, or who, although unsubdued, preferred not to provoke 
their enmity. 


14.—THE WARS OF MERCIA. 

From ‘ Ethic aid,’ a Tragedy. 
Scene I. 


Joanna Baillt^. . 


/ small cavern, in which is discovered a Wizard, sitting by a fire of embers, 
his scanty meal of parched corn, and counting out some money from a bag; 
and other things belonging to his art are strewed 'near him on the ground. 

Wiz. {alone) Thanks to the restless soul of M olio’s son ! 

Well thrives my trade. Here, the last hoarded coin 
Of the spare widow, trembling for the fate 
Of her remaining son, and the gay jewel 
Of fearful maid, who steals by fall of eve, 

With muffled face, to learn her warrior’s doom, 

Lie in strange fellowship ; so doth misfortune 
Make strange acquaintance meet. 








JOANNA BAILLIE.J 


THE WARS OF MERCIA. 


51 


Enter a Scout. 

Brother, thou com’st in haste ; what news, I pray T 

Scout. Put up thy book, and bag, and wizard’s wand, 

This is no time for witchery and wiles. 

Thy cave, I trow, will soon be fill’d with those, 

Who are by present ills too roughly shent 
To look thro’ vision’d spells on those to come. 

Wiz. What thou woud’st tell me, tell me'in plain words. 

Scout. Well, plainly then, Ethwald, who thought full surely 
The British, in their weak divided state. 

To the first onset of his arms would yield 

Their ill defended towers, has found them strengthen’d 

With aid from Wessex, and unwillingly 

Led back with cautious skill the Mercian troops 

Meaning to tempt the foe, as it is thought, 

To follow him into our open plains, 

Where they must needs with least advantage fight. 

Wiz. Who told thee this ? 

Scout. Mine eyes have seen them. Scarcely three miles off, 

The armies, at this moment, are engaged 
In bloody battle. On my way I met 
A crowd of helpless women, from their homes 
Who fly with terror, each upon her back 
Bearing some helpless babe or valued piece 
Of household goods, snatch’d up in haste. I hear 
Their crowding steps e’en now within your cave : 

They follow close behind. 

(Enter a crowd of women , young and old; some leading children and carrying 
infants on their hacks or in their arms , others carrying bundles and' pieces of 
household stuff.) 

Wiz. Who are ye, wretched women, 

Who, all so pale and haggard, bear along 
Those helpless infants, and those seeming wrecks, 

From desolation saved ? What do you want ? 

First Worn. Nought but the friendly shelter of your cave, 

For now or house, or home, or blazing hearth, 

Good Wizard, we have none. 

Wiz. And are the armies there so near your dwellings ? 

First Worn. Ay, round them, in them the loud battle clangs. 

Within our very walls fierce spearmen push, 

And weapon’d warriors cross their clashing blades. 

Second Worn., Ay, woe is me ! our warm and cheerful hearths 
And rushed floors whereon our children play’d, 

Are now the bloody lair of dying men. 

Old Worn. Ah woe is me! those yellow thatched roofs, 

Which I have seen these sixty years and ten, 

Smoking so sweetly ’midst our tufted thorns, 

And the turf’d graves wherein our fathers sleep ! 

Young Worn. Ah woe is me ! my little helpless babes ! 

Now must some mossy rock or shading tree 
Be your cold home, and the wild haws your food. 


52 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[JOANNA BAILLIE. 

No cheerful blazing fire and seething pot 
Shall now, returning from his daily toil, 

Your father cheer ; if that, if that indeed 
Ye have a father still— (bursting into tears.) 

Third Worn. Alack, alack! of all my goodly stuff 
I’ve saved but only this ! my winter’s webs 
And all the stores that I so dearly saved! 

I thought to havh them to my dying day ! 

(Enter a Young Man leading in an Idiot.) 

Young Worn. {running up to him.) 

Ah, my dear Swithick ! art thou safe indeed ? 

Why didst thou leave me ? 

Young Man. To save our idiot brother, see’st thou here ? 

I could not leave him in that pityless broil. 

Young Worn. Well hast thou done ! poor helpless Balderkin ! 

We’ve fed thee long, unweeting of our care, 

And in our little dwelling still thou’st held 
The warmest nook ; and, wheresoe’er we be, 

So shalt thou still, albeit thou know’st it not. 

{Enter Man carrying an Old Man on his back) 
Young Man. And see here, too, our neighbour Edwin comes, 

Bearing his bed-rid father on his back. 

Come in, good man. How dost thou, aged neighbour 1 
Cheer up again ! thou shalt be shelter’d still ; 

The Wizard has receiv’d us. 

Wiz. True, good folks ; 

I wish my means were better for your sakes. 

But we are crowded here ; that winding passage. 

Leads us into an inner cave full wide, 

Where we may take our room and freely breatne ; 

Come let us enter there. 

[Exeunt, all following the Wizard into the inner cave. 
Scene II. 

A field of battle strewed with slain, and some people seen upon the background searching 

amongst the dead bodies. 

Enter Ilereulf and Etlielbert. 

Her. {stopping short and holding up his hands '.) 

Good mercy ! see at what a bloody price 
Ethwald this doubtful victory has purchased, 

That in the lofty height to which he climbs 
Will be a slight step of but small advantage. 

Eth. {not attending to him, and after gazing for some time on the field.) 
So thus ye lie, who, with the morning sun, 

Bose cheerily, and girt your armour on 
With all the vigour, and capacity, 

And comeliness of strong and youthful men. 

Ye also, taken in your manhood’s wane, 

With grizzled pates, from mates, whose wither’d hands 
For some good thirty years had smooth’d your couch 
Alas ! and ye whose fair and early growth 
Did give you the similitude of men 









THE WARS OF MERCIA. 


63 


OANNA BA1LLIE.] 


Ere your fond mothers ceas’d to tend you still, 

As nurselings of their care, ye lie together ! 

Alas, alas ! and many now there be, 

Smiling and crowing on their mother’s breast, 

Turning, with all their little infant ways, 

Around her hopeful heart, who shall, like these, 

Be laid i’ the dust. 

Her. Ay, so it needs must be, since Hollo’s son 
Thinks Mercia all too strict for his proud sway. 

But here come those who search amongst the dead 
For their lost friends ; retire, and let us mark them. 

(they withdraw to one side) 

Enter two C'airls , meeting a third , who enters by the opposite side. 

First Cairl. (to third) Thou hast been o’er the field ? 

Third Cairl. I have, good friend. 

Second Cairl. Thou’st seen a rueful sight. 

Third Cairl. Yes, I have'seen that which no other sight 
Can from my fancy wear. Oh ! there be some 
Whose writhed features, fix’d in all the strength 
Of grappling agony, do stare upon you, 

With their dead eyes half open’d.— 

And there be some, stuck through with bristling darts, 

Whose clenched hands have torn the pebbles up ; 

Whose gnashing teeth have ground the very sand. 

Nay, some I’ve seen among those bloody heaps, 

Defaced and ’reft e’en of the form of men, 

Who in convulsive motion yet retain 
Some shreds of life more horrible than death : 

I’ve heard their groans, oh, oh ! 

(A voice from the ground) Bald wick ! 

Third Cairl. What voice is that 1 it comes from some one near. 
First Cairl. See, yon stretch’d body moves its bloody hand : 

It must be him. 

( Voice again) Bald wick ! 

Third Cairl (going up to the body from whence the voice came) 

Who art thou, wretched man ? I know thee not. 

Voice. Ah, but thou dost ! I have sat by thy fire, 

And heard thy merry tales, and shar’d thy meal. 

Third Cairl. Good holy saints ! and art thou Athelbald ? 

Woe ! woe is me to see thee in such case ! 

What shall I do for thee ? 

Voice. If thou hast any love of mercy in thee, 

Turn me upon my face that I may die ; 

For lying thus, see’st thou this flooded gash ? 

The glutting blood so bolsters up my life 
I cannot die. 

Third Cairl. I will, good Athelbald. Alack the day ! 

That I should do for thee so sad a service ; 

(Turns the soldier on his face) 

Voice. I thank thee, friend, farewell ! (dies) 

Third Cairl. Farewell! farewell ! a merry soul thou wert, 

And sweet thy ploughman’s whistle in our fields. 




54 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[JOANNA EAILLIE. 






Second Cairl. {starting with horror) Good heaven forfend ! it moves ? 
First Cairl. What dost thou see ? 

Second Cairl. Look on that bloody corse, so smear’d and mangled, 
That it has lost all form of what it was ; 

It moves ! it moves! there is life in it still. 

First Cairl. Methought it spoke, but faint and low the sound. 

Third Cairl. Ha ! did’st thou hear a voice ? we’ll go to it. 

Who art thou 1 oh ! who art thou ? {to a fallen warrior , who makes signs 
to him to pull something from his breast) 

Yes, from thy breast ; I understand the sign. 

(pulling out a band or 'kerchief from his breast) 

It is some maiden’s pledge. 

Fallen Warrior, {making signs) Upon mine arm. 

I pray thee, on mine arm. 

Third Cairl. I’ll do it, but thy wounds are past all binding. 

Warrior. She who will search for me doth know this sign. 

Third Cairl. Alack, alack ! he thinks of some sad maid ! 

A rueful sight she’ll see ! he moves again : 

Heaven grant him peace ! I’d give a goodly sum 
To see thee dead, poor wretch ! 

{Enter a woman wailing and wringing her hands. 

Second Cairl. Ha ! who comes wailing here 1 
Third Cairl. Some wretched mother who has lost her son . 

I met her searching ’midst the farther dead, 

And heard her piteous moan. 

Mother. I rear’d him like a little playful kid, 

And ever by my side, where’er I went, 

He blithely trotted. And full soon, I ween, 

His little arms did strain their growing strength 
To bear my burden. Ay, and long before 
He had unto a stripling’s height attain’d, 

He ever would my widow’s cause maintain 
With all the steady boldness of a man. 

I was no widow then. 

Second Cairl. Be comforted, good mother. 

Mother. What say’st thou to me ? knowest thou where he lies ] 

If thou hast kindness in thee tell me truly ; 

For dead or living still he is mine all, 

And let me have him. 

Third Cairl. {aside to Second) Send her away, good friend ; I know 
her now. 

Her boy is lying with the farther dead, 

Like a fell’d sapling ; lead her from the field. 

{Exeunt Mother and Second Cairl. 
First Cairl. But who comes now, with such distracted gait, 

Tossing her snowy arms unto the wind, 
x\md gazing wildly o’er each mangled corse ? 

{Enter a young woman searching distractedly amongst the dead) 

Young Woman. No, no ! thou art not here ! thou art not here ! 

Yet if thou be like these I shall not know thee 
Oh ! if they have so gash’d thee o’er with wounds 
And marr’d thy comely form ! I’ll not believe it 





JOANNA BAILLIE.] THE WARS OP MERCIA. 55 

Until these very eyes have seen thee dead, 

These very hands have press’d on thy cold heart 
I’ll not believe it. 

Third Cairl. Ah, gentle maiden ! many a maiden’s love, 

And many a goodly man lies on this field. 

Young Woman. I know, too true it is, but none like him. 

Liest thou, indeed, amongst those grisly heaps 1 
0 thou who ever wert of all most fair: 

If heaven have suffer’d this, amen, amen ! 

Whilst I have strength to crawl upon the earth 
I’ll search thee out, and be where’er thou art, 

Thy mated love, e’en with the grisly dead. 

{Searching again amongst the dead she 'perceives the band round the arm of the 
fallen warrior , and uttering a loud shriek falls senseless upon the ground. 
The Cairls run to her assistance , with Ethelbert and Hereulf , who come 
forward from the place they had withdrawn to ; Hereulf clenching his hand 
and muttering curses upon Mollo's son , as he crosses the stage. The scene 
closes.) _ 

15.—THE CONVERSION OF ETHELBERT. 

{From ‘ The Penny Magazine.’) 

Bede, “ the Venerable,” without whose writings we should know next to nothing 
of the early history of our church, or of the first introduction of Christianity into 
the island, was born about the year 675 on the lands which afterwards belonged to 
the two abbeys of St. Peter and St. Paul in the bishopric of Durham, near the 
mouth of the river Tyne. At seven years of age he was taken into the monastery 
of St. Peter at Jarrow to be educated for a priest. After twelve years of diligent 
study he took deacon’s orders, and eleven years after that period, or when he was 
in his thirtieth year, he was ordained a priest. His fame now reached Borne, and 
he was invited by Pope Sergius to repair to that city in order to assist in the 
promulgation of certain points of ecclesiastical discipline. But Bede, loving study 
better than travel, and being strongly attached to his own cell and quiet monastery 
declined the invitation, and remained at Jarrow to make himself master of all the 
learning which was then accessible, and to wiite the ecclesiastical histoiy of the 
English nation. The materials within his reach consisted of a few chronicles, and 
a few annals preserved in different religious houses ; but he had also access to living 
prelates and other churchmen, some of whom had been principal actors in a part 
of the events and scenes he had to describe, while others inherited from their own 
fathers all the traditional lore relating to the conversion of the Anglo-Saxon people, 
and more particularly of that part of the nation which was settled to the north of 
the Humber. Hence we find that Bede’s narrative is fullest when he treats of the 
introduction’and establishment of Christianity in Northumbria. He lived so near 
to the time that his history has much of the charm of a contemporary narrative. 
The date of his birth was within eighty years after the first landing of Augustin, 
and within half a century of the date assigned to the conversion of the Northumbrian 
king Edwin. He must have known, in his youth, persons who were living at the 
time of that conversion, and many that were alive when King Oswald revived the 
Christian faith and brought the monks from Iona to Lindisfarne. He published his 
ecclesiastical history (if we may apply the term publication to the very limited means 
which then existed of making a literary work known) about the year 734 ; but 
previously to this he had written and put forth many other books and treatises. His 
whole life indeed appears to have been absorbed by his literary labours. Sickness 




66 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[BEDE. 

and pain and the depressing influence of a confirmed asthma could not stop his 
pen. He died working. He was most anxious to finish two of his incomplete 
works, the one being a translation of St. John’s Gospel into the Saxon language. 
Stretched on his pallet, and unable to write with his own hand, he employed 
Wilberch, a young monk of the house, to write under his dictation. While thus 
occupied he grew worse and very weak. The young monk, observing this, said— 
“ There remains now only one chapter to do ; but it seems difficult to you to 
speak.” The dying man answered—“ It is easy ; take your pen, dip it in the ink, 
and write as fast as you can.” About nine o’clock Bede sent for some of his 
brethren to divide among them a little incense and a few other things of small 
value which he kept in a chest in his cell. The young man Wilberch then said— 
“ Master, there is now but one sentence wanting.” “Write on,” said Bede, “and 
write fast! ” The young monk did his best, and soon said—“ Now, master, it is 
finished.”—Bede replied—“ Thou hast said the truth —consummatum est ! So take 
up my head, for I would sit opposite to the place where I have been wont to pray.” 
Being seated according to his desire upon the floor of his cell he said—“ Glory be 
to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost”—and he breathed his last 
Dreath with the last of these words. This, according to the most generally received 
opinion, happened on the 26th day of May in the year 735 when he was in the 
sixtieth year of his age. The monks buried his body in the church of his own 
monastery at Jarrow: but long after his death his bones were removed to Durham 
Cathedral and placed in the same coffin or chest with those of St. Cuthbert. The 
church of Rome canonized him and conferred on him the name of “ the Venerable.” 
The name, at least, has been ratified by all succeeding ages. 

Bede’s ecclesiastical history contains a long series of striking picturesque narra¬ 
tives. We shall select and condense one or two of the more remarkable. 

Gregory, a Roman monk, of a noble family which traced its origin from the time 
of the imperial Ccesars, when Rome was mistress of the world, goes one day into 
the slave-market, which is situated at the end of the ancient Forum. Here he is 
struck by the sight of some young slaves from Britain, who are publicly exposed for 
sale, even like the cattle that are selling in another part of the Forum or great 
market-place. The children have bright complexions and fair long hair ; their 
forms are beautiful, the innocence of their look is most touching. Gregory eagerly 
asks from what distant country they come, and being told that they are Angles the 
pious father says they would be Angels if they were but Christians. He throws 
back his cowl and stands looking at them, and the children look at him, while 
some slave-dealers close at hand are chaffering with their customers, or inviting 
purchasers by extolling the fine proportions and the beauty of the young Northern 
slaves. The Capitol of ancient Rome and the Tarpeian Rock are in full sight ; the 
Coliseum shows its lofty walls at a short distance ; the magnificent columns of the 
Temple of Jupiter Stator come within the picture, and there are other ruins of a 
sublime character. It is but the end of the sixth century, and many ancient build¬ 
ings are comparatively perfect, though destined to disappear in the course of suc¬ 
ceeding centuries, and to leave it matter of doubt and speculation as to where stood 
the Temple of Concord, where the Temple of the Penates or Household Gods, where 
the Temple of Victory, where the arches of Tiberius and Severus, and where the 
other temples, arches, and columns that are known to have crowded the Forum and 
the spots surrounding it. As things are, we see the decay of Paganism and the 
establishment of Christianity upon its ruins. The temples, which are entire, are 
converted into churches : there is a crucifix on the highest part of the Capitol; 
there is a procession of monks passing along the edge of the Tarpeian Rock ; the 
firm set columns erected to that Jupiter whose faith could not stand are crowned 


BEDE.] 


THE CONVERSION OF ETHELBERT. 


57 


with crosses—the cross of Christ shows itself every where, on the summits of 
temples, over the crowns of triumphal arches, and upon all of the seven hills that 
are in sight. Gregory quits the slave-market solemnly musing upon the means 01 
carrying the knowledge of divine truth to the distant and savage land which ga\ e 
birth to these fair children. Shortly after he determines to be himself the mission¬ 
ary and apostle of the Anglo-Saxons. He even sets oft on the journey; but his 
friends, thinking that he is going to a certain death among barbarians, induce the 
pope to command his return. A few years pass away, and the monk Gregory be¬ 
comes Pope Gregory, and head of the Christian world, although he will only style him¬ 
self Servus Servorum Domini, or Servant of the Servants of the Lord. Men call him 
“ The Great,” and great is he in his humility and devotion and generosity of soul. 
He lives in as simple a style as when he was a poor monk ; he is averse to perse¬ 
cution holding that heretics and even Jews are to be treated with lenity, and are to 
be converted not by persecution but by persuasion. The wealth which begins to 
flow in to the Roman See he employs in bettering the condition of the poor, in 
erecting churches and in sending out missionaries to reclaim the heathen. He 
cannot go himself to the land of those fair-haired children, but now he sends Augus¬ 
tin prior of the convent of St. Andrews at Rome, and forty monks as missionaries 
to England. Augustin and his companions make the coast of Kent, and after many 
dangers, and fears, and misgivings—for the Anglo-Saxons had been represente to 
them as the most stubborn and most ferocious of the human species—they land m 
the isle of Thanet. Ethelbert the King of Kent is a pagan and worshipper of Odin, 
one who believes that the pleasures of Heaven, or of some future state of exist¬ 
ence, consist of fighting all day and feasting and drinking all night ; but his beauti¬ 
ful wife Bertha, a native of some part of the country which we now call France, is 
a Christian, and has brought with her from her own country a few ho y men who 
reprobate but are afraid of attacking the sanguinary Scandinavian faith and idola¬ 
try These timid priests have built or restored a little church outside the wads of 
Canterbury ; but it is overshadowed by a pagan temple, wherein is the rude image 
not of a God of Peace, but of a God of War and destruction ; and the foreigners 

fear that their humble little church will soon be destroyed by the Pagan pi lests. 

But Augustin arrives, and invites King Ethelbert to hear the glad tidings o sa va- 
tion the mild voice of the Gospel. The priests of bloody Odm and of the mui- 
derous Thor apprehend conjuration and magic, and advise the king to meet the 
missionaries not under a roof but in the open air, where magic spells will by ess 
dangerous in their operation. Ethelbert, with Queen Bertha by Ins side, goes forth 
to one of the pleasant Kentish hills commanding a view of the flowing ocean, which 
the monks have crossed : his warriors and his pagan priests stand round the ung 
and there is a solemn expectant silence until the music of many mingled harmonious 
voices is heard and Augustin and his forty companions are seen advancing in 
solemn processional orderf singing the psalms and 

monk in the procession carries a large silver crucifix. A Ftbclbert is 

banner on which is painted a picture of the Redeemer The heart 
, , 1 and bv the venerable, devout aspect ol the stiangeis 

' J interpreter^Those heart and soul are in the office, Augustin briefly 
expounds to the king the nature of the Christian faith, and implores Ethelbert to 
Se the holiest and only true religion, and permit him to P«^ “£"£££ 

hour?the , lests of 

Odin seem perplexed1 and irritated ; buUhe n^'pmd asTf they 

^^“•‘^^ heart ’’ e woudcrful words ° f tUe ag “ n ' 





58 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[BEDE. 


The Saxon king is more than half-converted ; but he thinks it needful to be cau¬ 
tious. He says he has no thought of forsaking the gods of his fathers ; but since the 
purposes of the strangers are good, and their promises inviting, they shall be suffered 
to instruct his people ; none shall raise the hand of violence against them, and they 
shall not know want, for the land is the land of plenty, and he, the King of Kent 
and Bretwalda of all the Saxon princes, will supply the monks with food and drink 
and lodging. Upon this Augustin and his companions fall again into order of 
procession, and direct their steps, solemn and slow, towards the neighbouring city 
of Canterbury, chaunting their anthems as they go. They reach the ancient city, 
and as they enter it in the midst of a wondering crowd, they sing with a holy and 
u cheerful note—“ Hallelujah ! hallelujah ! may the wrath of the Lord be turned 
from this city and from this holy place ! ” 

“ For ever hallowed be this morning fair, 

Blest he the unconscious shore on which ye tread, 

And blest the Silver Cross, which ye, instead 
Of martial banner, in procession hear; 

The Cross preceding Him who floats in air, 

The pictured Saviour!—By Augustine led, 

They come—and onward travel without dread, 

Chanting in barbarous ears a tuneful prayer, 

Sung for themselves, and those whom they would free : 

Eich conquest waits them: the tempestuous sea 
Of ignorance that ran so rough and high, 

And heeded not the voice of clashing swords, 

These good men humble by a few bare words, 

And calm with fear of God’s divinity.” 



The work of conversion proceeds rapidly and smoothly. The Italians find the 
poor Anglo-Saxons of Kent rather gentle and docile than ferocious ; many gladly 
renounce a creed of blood and hatred for a religion of peace and love ; the baptisms 
become numerous ; and at last, on the day of Pentecost, King Ethelbert himself 
yields to the arguments of the missionaries and the entreaties of his wife, and is 
baptized. On the ensuing Christmas ten thousand of the people follow the 
example of the king. Pope Gregory is transported with joy when these tidings 
reach Rome ; he writes an exulting letter to Eulogius, patriarch of Alexandria, 
giving an account of the success of his missionaries “ in the most remote parts of 
the world and he forthwith appoints Augustin to be primate of all England as 
well as Archbishop of Canterbury. Such is the origin of our church as related by 
the venerable Bede. 


16.—THE CONVERSION OF EDWIN. 

Camden describes a place upon the estuary of the Humber which, although a 
trivial place in modern days, is dear to every one familiar with our old ecclesiastical 
history: — 

“ In the Roman times, not far from its bank upon the little river Foulness 
(where Wighton, a small town, but well stocked with husbandmen, now stands,) 
there seems to have formerly stood Delgovitia ; as is probable both from the 
likeness and the signification of the name. For the British word Delgwe (or rather 
Ddelw) signifies the statues or images of the heathen gods ; and in a little village 
not far off there stood an idol-temple, which was in very great honour even in the 
Saxon times, and, from the heathen gods in it, was then called God-mundino-ham 
and now, in the same sense, Godmanham.” This is the place which witnessed the 







CAMDEN.] THE CONVERSION OF EDWIN. 59 

conversion to Christianity of Edwin, King of Northumbria. The whole story of 
this conversion, as told by Bede, is one of those episodes that we call superstitious, 
in which history reflects the confiding faith of popular tradition, which does not 
resign itself to the belief that all worldly events depend solely upon materia] 
influences. But one portion of this story has the best elements of high poetry in 
itself, and has therefore gained little by being versified even by Wordsworth. 
Edwin held a council of his wise men, to inquire their opinion of the new doctrine 
which was taught by the missionary Paulinus. In this council one thus addressed 
him : “ The present life of man, 0 King, seems to me, in comparison of that time 
which is unknown to us, like to a sparrow swiftly flying through the room, well 
warmed with the fire made in the midst of it, wherein you sit at supper in the 
winter, with commanders and ministers, whilst the storms of rain and snow prevail 
abroad : the sparrow, I say, flying in at one door, and immediately out at another, 
whilst he is within is not affected with the winter storm ; but after a very brief 
interval of what is to him fair weather and safety, he immediately vanishes out of 
your sight, returning from one winter to another. So this life of man appears for 
a moment ; but of what went before, or what is to follow, we are utterly ignorant. 
If, therefore, this new doctrine contains something more certain, it seems justly to 
deserve to be followed.” Never was a familiar image more beautifully applied ; 
never was there a more striking picture of ancient manners—the storm without, 
the fire in the hall within, the king at supper with his great men around, the open 
doors through which the sparrow can flit. To this poetical counsellor succeeded 
the chief priest of the idol-worship, Coifi. He declared for the new faith, and 
advised that the heathen altars should be destroyed. “ Who,” exclaimed the king, 

“ shall first desecrate their altars and their temples ? ” The priest answered, “ I; 
for who can more properly than myself destroy these things that I worshipped 
through ignorance, for an example to all others, through the wisdom given me by 
the true God 

“ Prompt transformation works the novel lore. 

The Council closed, the priest in full career 
Pddes forth, an armed man, and hurls a spear 
To desecrate the fane which heretofore 
He served in folly. Woden falls, and Thor 

Is overturned.” Wordsworth. 

The altars and images which the priests of Northumbria overthrew have left no 
monuments in the land. They were not built like the Diuidical temples, undei the 
impulses of a great system of faith which, dark as it was, had its foundations in 
spiritual aspirations. The pagan worship which the Saxons biought to this land 
was chiefly cultivated under its sensual aspects. The Valhalla, or heaven of the 
brave, was a heaven, of fighting and feasting, of full meals of boar’s flesh, and large 
draughts of mead. Such a future called not for solemn temples, and altars wheie 
the lowly and the weak might kneel in the belief that there was a heaven for them, 
as well as for the mighty in battle. The idols frowned, and the people trembled. 
But this worship has marked us, even to this hour, with the stamp of its authority. 
Our Sunday is still the Saxon’s Sun’s-day ; our Monday the Moon’s-day ; our 
Tuesday Tuisco’s-day; our Wednesday Woden’s-day ; our Thursday Thor’s-day; 
our Friday Friga’s-day ; our Saturday Seater’s-day. This is one of the many 
examples of the incidental circumstances of institutions surviving the institutions 
themselves—an example of itself sufficient to show the folly of legislating against 
established customs and modes of thought. The French republicans, with every 
aid from popular intoxication, could not establish their calendar for a dozen years. 
The Pagam Saxons have fixed their names of the week-days upon Christian England 
for twelve centuries, and probably for so long as England shall be a country. 




60 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[bfde. 


17.-C.EDMON THE POET. 

In the Fourth Book of Bede’s Ecclesiastical History, we find the following narra¬ 
tive : — 

There was in this Abbess’s Monastery a certain brother, particularly remarkable 
for the Grace of God, who was wont to make pious and religious verses, so that 
whatsoever was interpreted to him out of Holy Writ, he soon after put the same 
into poetical expressions of much sweetness and compunction, in his own, that is, 
the English language. By his verses the minds of many were often excited to de¬ 
spise the world, and to aspire to the heavenly life. Others after him attempted in 
the English nation to compose religious poems, but none could ever compare with 
him, for he did not learn the art of poetising of men, but through the Divine 
assistance ; for which reason he never could compose any trivial or vain poem ; but 
only those that relate to religion suited his religious tongue ; for having lived in a 
secular habit, till well advanced in years, he had never learnt any thing of versify¬ 
ing ; for which reason being sometimes at entertainments, when it was agreed for 
the more mirth, that all present should sing in their turns, when he saw the in¬ 
strument come towards him, he rose up from table, and returned home. Having 
done so at a certain time, and going out of the house where the entertainment was, 
to the stable, the care of horses falling to him that night, and composing himself 
there to rest at the proper time, a person appeared to him in his sleep, and salut¬ 
ing him by his name, said, Caedmon, Sing some song to me. He answered, I cannot 
sing ; for that was the reason why I left the entertainment , and retired to this place , 
because I could not sing . The other who talked to him, replied, however you shall 
sing. What shall I sing, rejoined he, Sing the beginning of Creatures , said the other. 
Hereupon he presently began to sing verses to the praise of God, which he had 
never heard. 


We extract the following remarks on the Poetry of Caedmon,from ‘Old England’:— 

The ode which Caedmon composed under the inspiration thus recorded is pre¬ 
served in Anglo-Saxon, in King Alfred’s translation of Bede’s Ecclesiastical His¬ 
tory : and the following is an English translation from Alfred’s version :— 

“ Now must we praise 
The guardian of heaven’s kingdom, 

The Creator’s might, 

And his mind’s thought; 

Glorious Father of men ! 

As of every wonder he, 

Lord Eternal, 

Formed the beginning. 

He first framed 
For the children of earth 
The heaven as a roof 
Holy Creator! 

Then mid-earth. 

The Guardian of mankind, 

The eternal Lord, 

Afterwards produced 
The earth for men, 

Lord Almighty!” 

The Metrical Paraphrase to which we have alluded is ascribed by some to a 







CiEDMON THE POET. 


AoJ’RED.] 


Cl 


second Caedmon ; but tlie best philological antiquaries are not agreed upon this 
matter. As to its extraordinary merits there is no difference of opinion. Sir 
Francis Palgrave says, “ The obscurity attending the origin of the Caedmonian 
poems will perhaps increase the interest excited by them. Whoever may have 
been their author, their remote antiquity is unquestionable. In poetical imagery 
and feeling, they excel all the other early remains of the North.” One of the re¬ 
markable circumstances belonging to these poems, whether written by the cow¬ 
herd of Whitby, or some later monk, is that we here find a bold prototype of the 
fallen angels of ‘ Paradise Lost.’ Mr. Conybeare says that the resemblance to Milton 
is so remarkable in that portion of the poem which relates to the Fall of Man, that 
“ much of this portion might be almost literally translated by a cento of lines from 
that great poet.” The resemblance is certainly most extraordinary, as we may 
judge from a brief passage or two. Every one is familiar with the noble lines in 
the first book of ‘ Paradise Lost’— 

“ Him the Almighty Power 
Hurl’d headlong flaming from th’ ethereal sky, 

With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell 
In adamantine chains and penal fire, 

Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms. 

Nine times the space which measures day and night 
To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 
Lay vanquish’d, rolling in the fiery gulf, 

Confounded though immortal.” 

The Anglo-Saxon Paraphrase of Caedmon was printed at Amsterdam in 1656. 
Can there be a question that Milton had read the passage which Mr. Thorpe thus 
translated ?— 

“ Then was the Mighty angry, 

The highest Ruler of heaven 
Hurled him from the lofty seat 
Hate had he gained at his Lord, 

His favour he had lost, 

Incensed with him was the Good in his mind. 

Therefore he must seek the gulf 
Of hard hell-torment, 

For that he had warr’d with heaven’s Ruler. 

He rejected him then from his favour, 

And cast him into hell, 

Into the 'deep parts, 

When he became a devil: 

The fiend with all his comrades 
Fell then from heaven above, 

Through as long as three nights and days, 

The angels from heaven into hell.” 

Who can doubt that when the music of that speech of Satan beginning 

«Is this the region, this the soil, the clime 
That we must change for heaven ?” 

swelled upon Milton’s exquisite ear, the first note was struck by the rough harmony 
of Csedmon ?— 

“ This narrow place is most unlike 
That other that we ere knew 
High in Heaven’s kingdom.” 






62 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[MAC FARLANE. 


Those who are desirous of popular information on the interesting subject of 
Anglo-Saxon literature, may be abundantly gratified in Mr. Sharon Turner’s 
i History of the Anglo-Saxons,’ in Mr. Conybeare’s ‘ Illustrations of Saxon Poetry,’ 
and especially in Mr. Wright’s admirable volume of ‘ Literary Biography’ of ‘ the 
Anglo-Saxon period.’ The study of the Anglo-Saxon language and literature is 
reviving in our times ; and we have little doubt that the effect will be, in conjunction 
with that love of our elder poets which is a healthful sign of an improving taste, to 
infuse something of the simple strength of our ancient tongue into the dilutions 
and platitudes of the multitudes amongst us “ who write with ease.” Truly does 
old Yerstegan say, “ Our ancient English Saxons’ language is to be accounted the 
Teutonic tongue, and albeit we have in latter ages mixed it with many borrowed 
words, especially out of the Latin and French, yet remaineth the Teutonic unto 
this day the ground of our speech, for no other offspring hath our language originally 
had than that.” The noble language—“ the tongue that Shakspere spake”'—which 
is our inheritance, may be saved from corruption by the study of its great Anglo- 
Saxon elements. All the value of its composite character may be preserved, with a 
due regard to its original structure. So may we best keep our English with all its 
honourable characteristics, so well described by Camden :—“ Whereas our tongue is 
mixed, it is no disgrace. The Italian is pleasant, but without sinews, as a still 
fleeting water. The French delicate, but even nice as a woman, scarce daring to 
open her lips, for fear of marring her countenance. The Spanish majestical, but 
fulsome, running too much on the o, and terrible like the devil in a play. The 
Dutch manlike, but withal very harsh, as one ready at every word to pick a quarrel 
Now we, in borrowing from them, give the strength of consonants to the Italian ; 
the full sound of words to the French ; the variety of terminations to the Spanish; 
and the mollifying of more vowels to the Dutch ; and so, like bees, we gather the 
honey of their good properties, and leave the dregs to themselves. And when thus 
substantialness combineth with delightfulness, fulness with fineness, seemliness with 
portliness, and currentness with staidness, how can the language which consisteth 
of all these, sound other than full of all sweetness ?” ( ; Remains.’) 


18.—ALFRED. 

(Abridged from an article in ‘ the Penny Magazine,’ by Mr. C. Mac Farlane.) 


The late Sir James Mackintosh said of Alfred—“The Norman historians, who 
seem to have had his diaries and note-books in their hands, chose Alfred as the 
glory of the land which had become their own. There is no subject on which 
unanimous tradition is so nearly sufficient evidence, as on the .eminence of one man 
over others of the same condition. His bright image may long be held up before 
the national mind. I his tradition, however paradoxical the assertion may appear, 
is, in the case of Alfred, rather supported than weakened by the fictions which have 
spiung fiom it. Although it be an infirmity of every nation to ascribe their insti¬ 
tutions to the contrivances of a man rather than to the slow action of time and 
circumstances, yet the selection of Alfred by the English people, as the founder of 
all that was dear to them, is surely the strongest proof of the deep impression left 
on the minds of all of his transcendant wisdom and virtue.” 

This darling of England was of the most ancient and illustrious lineage: his 
father Ethelwulf traced his descent from the most renowned of Saxon heroes and 
his mother Osburga descended from renowned Gothic progenitors. He was’born 
at the royal manor of Vanathing (now Wantage) in Berkshire, in the year 849. Of 
four legitimate sons. Alfred was the youngest; yet in 853 when King Ethelwulf 












ALFRED. 


63 


MAC FARLANE.] 

repaired to Rome, partly as a pilgrim to that holy city and partly to take counsel of 
the pope, and carried Alfred with him, Leo IV., who then wore the tiara or triple 
crown, consecrated the boy as king. This conferring of royal inaugural honours 
upon a child in the fifth year of his age, and the youngest of his family, has often 
been made matter of wonderment. The fact is, however, most distinctly stated by 
Asser and by the Saxon Chronicle. But at this time the seven states which had 
formed the Heptarchy were not thoroughly fused and amalgamated into the one 
great undividable kingdom of England ; and Ethelwulf, who allowed one of his sons 
to reign in Wessex during his own life, may have contemplated, as other Saxon 
sovereigns did even at a later period, a re-division of the kingdom, and may have 
been eager to secure one of the crowns for Alfred, his darling boy, and the fairest 
and most promising of his sons. 

It is not known how long Alfred remained at Rome, but it has been reasonably 
conjectured that, young as he was, he derived from his own observation some 
advantages from his sojourn in what was still the greatest and most civilized city in 
Europe. His father could not have failed of deriving improvement from the visit, 
and from his residence in various other cities in Italy and in France, for in both 
those countries there was then much more civilization than in England, and what 
was learned by the affectionate father could hardly have failed from being commu¬ 
nicated at a later date to the intelligent and inquiring son. 

The earliest story related of Alfred treats of his aptitude for learning and his 
love for poetry and books. He learned to read before his elder brothers, and before 
he could read he had learned by heart a great many Anglo-Saxon poems by hearing 
the minstrels and glee-men recite them in his father’s hall. This passionate love of 
letters never forsook him. In the year 871, when Alfred was in the twenty-second 
year of his age, Ethelred, the last of his kingly brothers, died of wounds received in 
battle with the Danish invaders, and the voice of the nobles and people immediately 
designated him as successor to the crown of all England. Alfred had already fought 
on many fields and had given proofs of political ability and wisdom, but it was with 
reluctance that he shut up his books and took up the sceptre. At this point his 
exciting and well-recorded adventures commence. 

For many years the hero has to fight for territory and for life against the formi¬ 
dable Danes, who, having conquered a large portion of the kingdom in the time of 
his brothers and predecessors, continued to receive every spring and summer fresh 
forces from the Baltic. He has scarcely been a month upon the throne ere he 
fights the great battle of Wilton. In the next year he fits out a small fleet of ships, 
a species of force which the Saxons had entirely neglected, and forms the embryo 
of the naval glory of England. His enemies, however, are too numerous to be 
resisted, and too faithless and cruel to be trusted ; and after fighting many battles, 
he is obliged to retire to an inland island called Athelney, or the Prince’s Island, 
near the confluence of the rivers Tlione and Parret. It is Asser who tells the story 
that is endeared to us all by our earliest recollections. In one of his excursions 
from Athelney Alfred takes refuge in the cabin of a swineherd, and tarries there 
some time. On a certain day it happens that the wife of the swain prepares to 
bake her loudas, or loaves of bread. Alfred chances at the time to be sitting near 
the hearth, but* he is busied in thinking of war and in making ready bows and 
arrows. The shrew soon beholds her loaves burning, and runs to remove them, 
scoldin'* the stranger. “ You man,” saith she, “ you will not turn the bread you 
see burning, but you will be glad enough to eat it.” “ This unlucky woman,” adds 
Asser, “ little thought she was talking to King Alfred, who had warred against the 

Pagans and gained so many victories over them.” 

Some of his friends have gathered armies together, and have obtained successes over 




64 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [MAC FARLANE. 

the enemy in various parts ; Alfred himself has raised a small band into a formidable 
force, and he has good reason to believe that the Danes are becoming incautious 
and negligent. Putting on the gleeman’s dress, and carrying instruments of music in 
his hand, he gains a ready entrance into the Danish camp ; and as he amuses these 
idle warriors with songs and interludes, he espies all their sloth and negligence, and 
hears much of their counsels and plans. The Danes love his company and his 
songs so much, that they are loth to let him depart ; but he is soon enabled to 
return to his friends at Athelney with a full account of the state and habits of this 
army; and secret and swift messengers are sent to all quarters to request all true 
Saxons to meet in arms by a given time, at Egbert’s stone, on the east of feelwood 
Forest. The true Saxons meet, and fight, and defeat the Danes in the great battle 
of Ethandune, on the banks of the river Avon. And now follows the’touching 
picture of the conversion and baptism of Guthrun the Dane with King Alfred 
standing by him at the baptismal font as his sponsor. 

It was about this time that Alfred, who had solaced his misfortunes during his 
retirement in Athelney by frequently reading in a book, sent into Wales to invite 
Asser to his court or camp, in order that he might profit by the instructive conver¬ 
sation of the most learned man then in the island of Britain. The monk of St. 
David’s obeyed the summons, and, as he himself tells us, was introduced to the 
king at Dene in Wiltshire, by the thanes who had been sent to fetch him. A 
familiar friendly intercourse followed a most courteous reception, and then the king 
invited the monk to live constantly with him. The vows of Asser and his attach¬ 
ment to the monastery of St. David’s interfered with this arrangement ; but it was 
finally agreed that he should pass part of his time in his monastery and the rest of 
the year at court. When Asser returned to Alfred, he remained eight months 
constantly with him, conversing with him, and reading with him all such books as 
the king possessed. Few were these books in number—scarce and more precious 
than the most costly jewels, nor were there many contemporary sovereigns much 
better provided than the king of England. But efforts w T ere made to obtain more 
books on the Continent, and to collect such as had escaped the destructive fires 
kindled by the Danes, and w r ere scattered about the country, and to procure scribes 
learned enough to copy manuscripts, and so multiply the books. Alfred’s gratitude 
to Asser knew no bounds. At first he gave the learned monk an abbey in Wilt¬ 
shire, and another abbey at Ban well in Somersetshire, and a rich silk pall, and as 
much incense as a strong man could carry on his shoulders, assuring him that he 
considered these as small things for a man of so much merit, and that hereafter he 
should have greater. Asser was subsequently promoted to the bishopric of Sherburn, 
and thenceforward remained constantly with the king, enjoying his entire confidence 
and affection, and sharing in all his joys and sorrows. 

The converted Guthrun kept his contract, but other hosts of pagan Danes came 
from beyond the sea. After six years of warfare, with several battles fought in 
each year, Alfred was enabled to rebuild and fortify the city of London, which the 
Danes had burned. His infant Navy gained divers victories; and when a Danish 
host sailed up the Medway and laid siege to Rochester, Alfred with a land force fell 
suddenly upon them, and drove them back to their ships. But in the course of six 
or seven years Hasting, the greatest and ablest of all the Danish warriors and sea- 
kings, came over to England with a more desperate army than had ever been seen 
before ; and a new war was commenced, which was prosecuted successively in nearly 
every corner of England, and which lasted with scarcely any intermission for four 
years. The combats were many, and King Alfred was personally present in most 
of them. Great was the aid he received from the restored citizens of London, whose 
gratitude and affection knew no bounds. These generous citizens not only furnished 


ALFRED. 


65 


MAC FARLANE.] 

him with money and provisions, hut they also put on warlike harness and went 
out, young and old, and fought under him. The valley of the Lea, from its mouth 
on the Thames near London up to Ware and Hertford and the country above Hert¬ 
ford, was the scene of many remarkable exploits in war, in which the Londoners 
had a very distinguished part. The pleasant river Lea was very different a thou¬ 
sand years ago from what it now is. It was both broader and deeper, being filled 
by a far greater volume of water from the then undrained country. Nor did the 
Danish ships of war draw so much water as a modern trading sloop. Thus Hasting 
was enabled to carry his great fleet of ships up the river as far as Ware, or, as some 
think Hertford, where he established one of Ins fortified camps, m the constiuction 
of which this Danish commander displayed extraordinary skill On the approach 
of summer, the burgesses of London, with many of their neighbours, who saw that 
their ripening corn was exposed to be reaped by a Danish sickle, attacked Hastmg 
in this' stronghold, but were repulsed with great loss. But presently A le 
marching from a distant part of the country, came and encamped his army round 
about the city of London, and stayed there until the citizens and their neighbours 
got in their harvests. He then marched away to the Lea, which seemed covered^ 
the enemy’s ships, and at great personal risk surveyed with his own eyes this new 
fortified camp of the Danes. His active mind presently conceived a plan which 
was much safer and surer than any assault that could be made upon thosei formid¬ 
able works. Bringing up his forces, and calling upon the brave -and alert Londoners 
for assistance, he raised two fortresses, one on either side the Lea a littlei below the 
Danish camp and then dug three deep canals or channels fiom the Lea to the 
Thames in orfer to lower the level of the tributary stream. So much water was 
thus drawn off, that the whole fleet of Hasting was left aground and rendered use¬ 
less Upon this the terrible sea-king broke from his intreuchments by night, and 
hardly rested till he had traversed the whole of that wide tract of country which 
lies between the river Lea and the Severn. While King Alfred followed Hasting, 

he Londoners fell upon the Danish ships and galleys, an 1 somebroke t, 

nieces and some they got afloat again, and carried round m triumph, and with 
Saxon’horns and other music, to the city of London. At Quatbridge, on the Severn 
(the place is now called Quatford ; and it lies not far from Bridgenortli m e rop- 
shire) Alfred found the Danish host in another camp, which they had already 
strongly fortified. The Saxon king was compelled to respect the mtrenchments at 
o2ridge and to leave the Danes there undisturbed all through the winter ; but 
he established so good a blockade that the Danes could not plunder the country or 
often “from their works, and at the approach of spring hunger drove them 
nil rmf of England • and Hasting, after escaping with difficulty from the sword of 
Sfred crossed the ’channel without profit or honour, as Asser says. The sea-king 
tended the river Seine, obtained some settlement in France and never more 

iffiS XTZght rno unkingly ^ 

steadiness ; some of these carried sixty oare<“Xthere’carried « - 

ST “ll’of Alfred" own invention,and they 

sixty. y peculiarly well adapted to the service for which they were 

were soon found to De ptum* y . i Alfred floated over more than a 




CG 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[mac farlane. 


liad, and as such entitled to our veneration—was divided into squadrons, some of 
which were stationed at different ports round the island, while some were kept 
constantly cruising between our island and the Continent and the outlet from the 
Baltic Sea. The flag of England was already a meteor flag, and no ship of any 
other nation met it at sea without paying honour to it. 

Alfred, who had learned the importance of fortifications during his wars with the 
Danes, and especially in his long contest with Hasting, who was a great master in 
the art of castrametation, and the art of choosing and fortifying positions, erected 
defensive works round all the towns he rebuilt, and taught the people how to keep 
them in constant repair. He caused a survey to be made of the coast and navi¬ 
gable rivers, and ordered castles to be erected at those places which were most 
accessible to the landing of the enemy. Fifty strong towers and castles rose in 
different parts of the country ; and the number would have been threefold if the 
king had not been thwarted by the indolence, ignorance and carelessness of the 
nobles and freemen. 

The Danes and Norwegians, with whom Alfred had to contend, were the most 
accomplished warriors of the age. The appellation of the Scandinavian Hannibal has 
been conferred on Hasting, and his extraordinary campaigns in England will justify 
the title, even without looking to his exploits in France and other countries. The 
skill, the untiring perseverance, the indomitable courage, the consummate prudence 
which Alfred displayed in his long contest with the greatest of the sea-kings, and 
the complete triumph he obtained over him in the end, must assuredly give him 
rank among the greatest military commanders of that age. Yet was he even greater 
in peace than in war. In every interval of repose allowed him by the furious in¬ 
vaders, he gave himself up to study and contemplation, and occupied his mind by 
devising the means of improving the moral as well as the physical condition of the 
people, and of advancing their civilization by books and schools, and a better ad¬ 
ministration of the laws. When he rebuilt London he gave to it many admirable 
civil institutions and laws, and appointed the ealdorman Ethered to be its governor. 
He rebuilt Winchester and many other cities, and instead of wood, the only mate¬ 
rial which had been used before his time, he introduced the use of stone and bricks 
and taught his people to build houses like those he had seen at Rome and Milan. 
And wherever he re-edified a town he gave the people rules for reconstructing and 
improving their municipal institutions, and trained them to that system of self- 
government which has since become the pride and strength of England, and with¬ 
out which there can be no lasting liberty in any country. There had been codes 
of law in England long before the days of Alfred, and some of these, though rudely 
simple, had a fine free spirit about them. Ethelbert, King of Kent; Ina, King of 
Wessex ; Offa, King of Mercia, and other Anglo-Saxon sovereigns, had been legisla¬ 
tors, and had promulgated their several codes or Dooms : but all law and order had 
well nigh perished during the devastations, the horror, the anarchy, and the break¬ 
ing up of society occasioned by the Danish invasions ; and the memory of them 
together with all instruction and enlightenment, seemed to be wearing out in the 
popular mind. Alfred collected the codes and dooms of his predecessors, and ap¬ 
parently without adding much of his own, and without introducing any new matter 
whatsoever, he compiled a very intelligible and consistent code, and submitted it 
to the Witenagemot, or parliament, or great council, for their sanction. He tells 
us himself that he was afraid to innovate, and that he thought it better to permit 
a continuance of a defective law than to destroy that respect for established autho¬ 
rity, which is the foundation upon which all laws must rest. Plain and simple 
laws might do for a simple state of society, if they were only properly and impar¬ 
tially administered ; and it was rather to this proper administration, than to the 










ALFRED. 


67 


MAG FARLANE.] 

construction of any new theory, that Alfred directed his attention. In practice the 
judges had become shamefully corrupt. Asser mentions that he exercised great 
vigilance over the judges, frequently reprimanding those who did amiss, and 
threatening them with deprivation and other punishments. We have the same 
good authority for the facts that the courts became pure ; that the laws, such as 
they were, were fairly administered; and that town-people and villagers kept such 
good police that robbery and theft became almost unknown. Towards the close of 
his reign it was generally asserted, that one might have strewed golden bracelets 
and jewels on the public highways and cross-roads, and no man would have dared 
to touch them for fear of the law. 

Alfred, who felt that if the divine law were duly observed there would be no 
necessity for human legislation, opened his code of laws with the ten command¬ 
ments, a selection from the Mosaic precepts, and the canons of the First Apostolic 
Councils. u Do these,” he said, “ and no other doom-book will be needed.” 

But if Alfred did not introduce many new laws, he rejected some of the old 
ones. For this we have his own word. He says in his doom-book, “ I then, 
Alfred, King, gathered these laws together, and commanded many of those to be 
written which our forefathers held, those which to me Seemed good ; and many of 
those which seemed to me not good, I rejected them, by the counsel of my Whan, 
and in otherwise commanded them to be holden ; for I durst not venture to set 
down in writing much of my own, for it was unknown to me what of it would please 
those who should come after us. But those things which I met with, either of the 
days of Ina, my kinsman, or Offa, King of the Mercians, or of Ethelbert, who first 
among the English race received baptism, those which seemed to me the rightest, 
those I have here gathered together and rejected the others. I then, Alfred, King 
of the West-Saxons, showed these to all my Witan, and they then said that it 
seemed good to them all to be holden.” It was Alfred’s grand object to consoli¬ 
date the dominions of England, to make one consistent and inseparable whole of 
the various states into which it had been divided by the Saxon conquerors (states 
which were still separated by old jealousies and antipathies), to regenerate the 
whole Anglo-Saxon people, and to create a new national spirit; and as he effected 
this not ostentatiously, but by unwearied political activity, he was in reality the 
King, the Liberator, the Reformer of all England. 


10.—ALFRED.— Continued. 

* 

Alfred was not only the first warrior, the first statesman and legislator, but he 
was also the first scholar in his dominions. From Asser’s interesting memoirs the 
fact may easily be gathered that Alfred vastly exceeded even the most learned of 
his prelates in scholar-like accomplishments. He states that the king’s noble mind 
thirsted for knowledge from the very cradle, and that when a mere child he had 
got many of the Anglo-Saxon poems by heart. It appears highly probable that 
Alfred diligently studied the language between his twelfth and eighteenth year ; 
that he had a few Latin books with him in his solitude at Athelney, and that he 
was (for that time) a good Latin scholar before he invited Asser to his court. But 
whenever or however he obtained his knowledge of that learned tongue, he cer¬ 
tainly showed in his literary works a proficiency in Latin which was almost mira¬ 
culous for a prince in Alfred’s age. The style of his works in his native language 
proves that his acquaintance with a few good classical models was familial, and 
extended to higher things than mere words and phrases. 

Alfred was accustomed to say that he regretted the imperfect education of his 
youth, the entire want of proper teachers, and the many difficulties which then 








68 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[MAC FARLANE. 


barred his progress to intellectual improvement, much more than all the hardship 
and sorrows and misfortunes that befell him afterwards. As one of his greatest 
impediments had been the difficult Latin language, he earnestly recommended 
from the throne, in a circular letter addressed to the bishops, that thenceforward 
* all good and useful books be translated into the language .which we all under¬ 
stand ; so that all the youths of England, but more especially such as are of gentle 
kind and in easy circumstances, may be grounded in letters—for they cannot 
profit in any pursuit until they be well able to read English.” His mind was too 
lofty for pedantry to reach it, and too liberal and expansive to entertain the idea 
that learning ought to be kept in a foreign disguise and out of the reach of the 
people. He looked to the intellectual improvement of the people and their religious 
instruction as to the only solid foundation upon which a government could repose 
or a throne be established. It was left to a later age to advance the monstrous 
principle that the bulk of mankind can be governed only by the suppression or 
debasement of their intellectual faculties, and that governments and all the insti¬ 
tutions of civil life are best supported by the ignorance of the greatest part of 
those who live under them. The doctrine of this enlightened English king of the 
ninth century was—let there be churches, abbeys, schools, books; let the churches 
be served by active and conscientious priests ; let the abbeys be filled by the most 
learned men that can be found ; let the schools be taught by able masters ; and 
let the books be in the language which is spoken by all the people. And the 
theory was carried into practice to an extent which is surprising for those times. 


He never rebuilt a town without furnishing it with a good capacious school; he 
founded or restored churches and monasteries at Athelney, Shaftesbury, Win¬ 
chester, and many other places, in some of which the people had almost relapsed 
into heathenism ; he sent into various countries in search of learned and industri¬ 
ous teachers ; and in order that there might be books for the people to read, he 


wrote many himself. Even as an author, no native of England of the old Saxon 
period, except the venerable Bede, can be compared to Alfred either for the num¬ 
ber or for the excellence of his writings. These works were in good part transla¬ 
tions from the Latin into Anglo-Saxon. He thus translated for the instruction of 
his subjects—1, Orosius’s History, six books ; 2. St. Gregory’s Pastorale ; 3, St. 
Gregory’s Dialogues ; 4, Bede’s History, five books ; 5, Boetius, on the Consolation 
of Philosophy ; 6, The Merchen-Lage (Laws of the Mercians) ; 7, Asser’s Sentences ; 

8, The Psalms of David. His original works—all in the same plain-spoken lan¬ 
guage of the people, were—1, An Abridgment of the Laws of the Trojans, the 
Greeks, the Britons, the Saxons, and the Danes ; 2, Laws of the West-Saxons; 
3, Institutes ; 4, A Book against Unjust Judges ; 5, Sayings of the Wise ; 6, A 
Book on the Fortunes of Kings; 7, Parables and Jokes ; 8, Acts of Magistrates ; 

9, Collection of Chronicles ; 10, Manual of Meditations. 

He was an elegant poet, and wrote a great many Anglo-Saxon poems and ballads, 

which were sung or recited in all parts of England, but of which we believe no 
trace has been preserved, though we have a few verses of a still more ancient date. 
In his original works the extent of his knowledge is not less astonishing than the 
purity of his taste : the diction is classically easy and simple, yet not deficient 
either in strength or in ornament. Asser tells us that his first attempt at transla¬ 
tion was made upon the Bible, a book which no man ever held in greater reverence 
than King Alfred. He and the king were engaged in pleasant conversation, and it 
so chanced that Asser quoted a passage from the Bible with which the king was 
much struck. Alfred requested his friend to write the passage in a collection of 
psalms and hymns which he had had with him at Athelney and which he always 
earned in his bosom ; but not a blank leaf could be found in that book. At the 









ALFRED. 


69 


MAC FARLANE.] 

monk’s suggestion the king called for a clean skin of parchment, and this being 
folded into fours, in the shape of a little book, the passage from the Scriptures was 
written upon it in Latin, together with other good texts : and the king setting to 
work upon these passages, translated them into the Anglo-Saxon tongue. 

Bishop Alfric, reputed the best philologist of his age, undertook a new version of 
the Pentateuch, and of some of the apocryphal books ; and in his preface he refuted 
certain objections which had already been raised against similar labours, or against 
the practice of giving the Scriptures to the common people in a language they could 
understand. “ The rubrics prefixed to the lessons of the Anglo-Saxon version of 
the Gospels,” says Sir Francis Palgrave, “ leave no reason to doubt but that they 
were regularly read in the churches on Sundays and festivals. Large portions of 
the Scripture were also reproduced in the Anglo-Saxon homilies or sermons, and 
the study of the Holy Scriptures was most earnestly recommended both to clergy 

and laity, as the groundwork of their faith.From the Anglo- 

Saxon age, dowrn to Wicliffe, we in England can show such a succession of Biblical 
versions, in metre and in prose, as are not to be equalled amongst any other nation 
in Europe.” 

Nothing is more astonishing in the story of this marvellous man than how he 
could find time for these laudable literary occupations ; but he was steady and 
persevering in all things, regular in his habits, when not kept in the field by the 
Danes, and a rigid economist of his time. Eight hours of each day he gave to sleep, 
to his meals, and exercise ; eight were absorbed by the affairs of government ; and 
eight were devoted to study and devotion. Clocks, clepsydras, and other ingenious 
instruments for measuring time, were then unknown in England. Alfred was no 
doubt acquainted with the sun-dial, which was in common use in Italy ; but this 
index is of no use in the hours of the night and would frequently be equally 
unserviceable during our foggy sunless days. Lie therefore marked his time by the 
constant burning of wax torches or candles, which Were made precisely of the same 
weight and size, and notched in the stem at regular distances. These candles were 
twelve inches long ; six of them, or seventy-two inches of wax, were consumed in 
twenty-four hours, or fourteen hundred and forty minutes; and thus, supposing 
the notches at intervals of an inch, one such notch would mark the lapse of twenty 
minutes, and three such notches the lapse of an hour. These time-candles were 
placed under the special charge of the king’s mass-priests or chaplains. But it was 
soon discovered that sometimes the wind, rushing in through the windows and doors, 
and the numerous chinks in the walls of 'the royal palace, caused the wax to be 
consumed in a rapid and irregular manner. This induced Alfred to invent that 
primitive utensil the horn lanthorn ; which now-a-days is never seen except in the 
stable yard of some lowly country inn, and not often even there. Asser tells us 
that the king went skilfully and wisely to work ; and having found out that white 
horn could be rendered transparent like glass, he with that material, and with 
pieces of wood, admirably (mirabiliter) made a case for his candle, which kept it 
from wasting and flaring. And therefore, say we, let none ever look upon an ostler’s 
horn lanthorn, however poor and battered it may be, and however dim the light 
that shines within it, without thinking of Alfred the Great. 

In his youth he was much addicted to field sports, and a perfect master of hunting 
and the then newly introduced art of hawking ; but in after life he begrudged the 
time which these exciting amusements demanded. 

No prince of his time made such strenuous efforts in favour of education and 
the diffusion of knowledge among his people. Charlemagne acted upon a much 
vaster stage ; but in this, as in several other respects, he was left far behind by our 
Alfred. Since the days of the venerable Bede the civilization of the country had 






70 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[MAC FARLANE. 


sadly retrogaded . the Danes, by directing their chief fury against the churches, 
abbeys, and monasteries, had destroyed the most learned of the Anglo-Saxon priests 
and monks—had burned their little libraries, and scared literature away from its 
only haunts. The schools had disappeared, there being at this period no schools 
or libraries in the country, except such as belonged to the monastic establish¬ 
ments. Alfred’s own account of the state in which he found the kingdom in this 
respect, at his accession to the throne, is most interesting ; and his feeling of his 
own merits in effecting a change for the better is expressed with all the modesty 
of a truly great mind. In the circular letter which he prefixed to his translation 
of St. Gregory’s ‘ Pastorale,’ he says—“ Knowledge had fallen into such total decay 
among the English, that there were very few on the other side of the Humber who 
understood the common prayers, so as to be able to tell their meaning in English, 
or who could have translated into that language a Latin passage ; and I ween there 
were not many on this side of Humber who could do it. Indeed there were so 
few such, that I do not even recollect one to the south of the Thames, at the time 
I succeeded to the crown. God Almighty be thanked, there are now some holding 
bishoprics who are capable of teaching.” 

His own large mind was ever open to instruction on any subject. The science 
of geography was then in a most imperfect, mutilated state. The works of the 
SJreek and Roman geographers (themselves very defective) were unknown in 
England, and very little known in any part of western Europe. The dark ages had 
furnished nothing to supply their place. But barbarous invention had disfigured 
this fair world by promulgating the most absurd fables about distant countries and 
the men who inhabited them. Johannes Scotus had been a great traveller before 
he came to Alfred’s court to impart the varied knowledge of which he was master. 
Other travelled men preceded or followed him ; and it was evidently one of the 
greatest delights of the king’s life to converse with these men about the distant 
lands in which they had been, and the still remoter parts of the earth of which 
they had obtained some information by reading books in other languages, or by 
hearsay. One of these adventurous men was Audher, or Othere, who had coasted 
the continent of Europe towards the North Pole, from the Baltic to the North 
Cape, with the view of ascertaining how far that continent extended ; and who, in 
his skiff, had run along all the northern coast of Lapland, and had ventured to the 
shores occupied by the wild men of Finland. Another of these travellers was 
Wulstan, apparently a born subject of the king, who undertook a voyage all round 
the Baltic, and who succeeded in gathering many particulars concerning the divers 
countries situated on that sea. Others among these bold men who either had been 
sent out expressly by Alfred, or had been brought by him into England on account 
of the journeys they had previously made, had visited Germany, Bulgaria, Sclavonia, 
and Bohemia. All the information about foreign parts that Alfred obtained from 
these, his rough but honoured guests, he committed to writing in the plain mother 
tongue, and with the noble design of imparting it to his people ; and in enlarging 
the text of Orosius, the Spanish chronicler, whose work he translated, he intro¬ 
duced a geographical account of Germany, and the voyages of Audher towards the 
North Pole and of Wulstan in the Baltic; this new, and for the time most valuable 
matter, being the cream of his conversations with his travelled guests. 

Having obtained information—probably from Johannes Scotus, who had been in 
the East—that there were colonies of Christian Syrians settled on the coasts of 
Malabar and Coromandel, who spoke the same tongue which Christ spoke when he 
was upon earth, Alfred, partly from feelings of devotion, and partly no doubt to 
increase his geographical knowledge, resolved to send out his well-instructed friend 
Switheim, Bishop of Sherburn, to India, a tremendous journey in those days, and 










ALFRED. 


71 


MAC FARLANE.] 

one which, had never been made by any Englishman. But the stout-hearted bishop, 
malting, as it should seem, what is now called the Overland journey, went and 
returned in safety, bringing back with him presents of gems and Indian spices. 
Hereby was Alfred’s fame increased, and the name and existence of England pro¬ 
bably heard of for the first time in that remote country, of which, nine centuries 
after, she was to become the almost absolute mistress. 

This Saxon king, who could practise with his own hand the mechanical arts, 
extended his encouragement to all the humble but useful arts, and always gave a 
kind reception to mechanics of superior skill, of whom no inconsiderable number 
came into England from foreign countries. “ Ho man,” says Milton, “ could be 
more frugal of two precious things in man’s life, his time and his revenue. . . 

His whole annual revenue, which his first care was, should be justly his own, he 
divided into two equal parts : the first he employed in secular uses, and subdivided 
those into three ; the first, to pay his soldiers, household servants, and guard; the 
second, to pay his architects and workmen whom he had got together of several 
nations, for he was also an elegant builder, above the custom and conceit of Eng¬ 
lishmen in those days ; the third he had in readiness to relieve or honour strangers, 
according to their worth, who came from all parts to see him and to live under him. 
The other equal part of his yearly wealth he dedicated to religious uses, those of 
four sorts : the first, to relieve the poor ; the second, to build and maintain monas¬ 
teries ; the third, to a school, where he had persuaded the sons of many noblemen 
to study sacred knowledge and liberal arts (some say Oxford) ; the fourth was for 
the relief of foreign churches, as far as India to the shrine of St. Thomas.” 

This great prince was anxious above all things that his subjects should learn how 
to govern themselves, and how to preserve their liberties ; and in his will he de¬ 
clared that he left his people as free as their own thoughts. He frequently assem¬ 
bled his Witenagemot, or parliament, and never passed any law, or took any im¬ 
portant step whatsoever, without their previous sanction. Down to the last days 
of his life he heard all law appeals in person with the utmost patience ; and, in cases 
of importance, he revised all the proceedings with the utmost industry. His mani¬ 
fold labours in the court, the camp, the field, the hall of justice, the study, must 
indeed have beeu prodigious. “ One canuot help being amazed, says Burke, “that 
a prince who lived in such turbulent times, who commanded personally in fifty- 
four pitched battles, who had so disordered a province to regulate, who was not 
only a legislator, but a judge, and who was continually superintending his armies, 
his navies, the traffic of his kingdom, his revenues, and the conduct of all his 
officers, could have bestowed so much of his time on religious exercises and specu¬ 
lative knowledge ; but the exertion of all his faculties and virtues seemed to have 
given a mutual strength to all of them. Thus all historians speak of this prince, 
whose whole history is one panegyric; and whatever dark spots of human frailty 
may have adhered to such a character, they are entirely hid in the splendour of his 
many shining qualities and grand virtues, that throw a glory over the obscure period 

in which he lived.” , . . , . ,, 

Our amazement at all this bodily and mental activity must be increased by the 

indisputable fact that all these incessant exertions were made m spite of the de¬ 
pressing influences of physical pain and constant bad health. At the age of twenty 
or twenty-one, he was visited by a tormenting malady, the inward seat and unknown 
nature of which baffled all the medical skill of his “ leeches.” The accesses of 
excruciating pain were frequent—at times almost umntermittent J and then, if by 
day or by night a single hour of ease was mercifully granted him, that short inter¬ 
val was embittered by the dread of the sure returning anguish. But t *e good monk 
Asser, who withdraws the curtain and admits us into the sick room of the g* eat 









72 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[MAC FARLANE. 


Saxon sovereign, tells us that Heaven vouchsafed him strength to bear these mortal 
agonies, and that they were borne with a devout fortitude. The disease never 
quitted him, and was no doubt the cause of his death. “ The shepherd of his 
people,” “ the darling of the English,” “ the wisest man in England,” the truly 
illustrious Alfred, expired in the month of November, on the festival of SS. Simon 
and Jude, in the year 900, when he was only in the fifty-first year of his age. He 


was buried at Winchester, in a monastery he had founded. 




20.—ALFRED, THE FUGITIVE. 


Sheridan Knowles. 


Alfred discovered trimming some arrows , with an unfinished bow beside him—Maude 

kneading four for cakes. 

Maude [ aside .] Ay, there he’s at his work ! if work that be 
Which spareth toil. He’ll trim a shaft, or shape 
A bow with any archer in the land, 

But neither can he plough, nor sow !—I doubt 
If he can dig—I am sure he cannot reap— 

He has hands and arms, but not the use of them ! 

Corin ! 

Alf. Your will ? 

Maude. Would thou could’st do my will 
As readily as ask it ! Go to the door ; 

And look if Edwin comes. Dost see him 1 
Alf. No. 

Maude. Bad omen that ! He’ll bring an empty creel; 

Else were he home ere now. Put on more wood ; 

And lay the logs on end ; you’ll learn in time 
To make a fire. Why, what a litter’s there, 

With trimming of your shafts that never hit ! 

Ten days ago you killed a sorry buck; 

Since when your quiver have you emptied thrice, 

Nor ruffled hair nor feather. 

Alf If the game 

Are scarce and shy, I cannot help it. 

Maude. Out! 

Your aim I wot is shy, your labour scarce ; 

There’s game enow, would’st thou but hunt for them ; 

And when you find them, hit them. What expect’st 
To-day for dinner ? 

Alf. What Heaven sends ! 

Maude. Suppose 
It sends us nought ? 

Alf. Its will be done ! 

Maude. You’d starve ; 

So would not I, knew I to bend a bow 
Or cast a line. See if thou hast the skill 
To watch these cakes, the while they toast. 

Alf. I’ll do 
My best. 

Maude. Nor much to brag of, when all \s done ! 










SHERIDAN KNOWLES.] ALFRED, THE FUGITIVE. 73 

Alf. [ solus .] This is the lesson of dependence. Will 
Thaukless, that brings not profit;—labour spurned 
That sweats in vain ; and patience taxed the more, 

The more it bears. And taught unto a king— 

Taught by a peasant’s wife, whom fate hath made 
Her sovereign’s monitress. She little knows 
At whom she rails; yet is the roof her own : 

Nor does she play the housewife grudgingly. 

Give her her humour ! So ! How stands the account 
’Twixt me and fortune ? We are wholly quits ! 

She dress’d me—she has stripp’d me !—on a throne 
She plac’d me—she has struck me from my seat! 

Nor in the respect where sovereigns share alike 
With those they rule, was she less kind to me— 

Less cruel! High she fill’d for me the cup 
Of bliss connubial—she has emptied it ! 

Parental love she set before me too, 

And bade me banquet ; scarce I tasted, ere 

She snatch’d the feast away ! My queen—my child !— 

Where are they ? ’neath the ashes of my castle ! 

I sat upon their tomb one day—one night ! 

Then first I felt the thraldom of despair. 

The despot he ! He would not let me weep 
There were the fountains of my tears as dry 
As they had never flow’d ! My heart did swell 
To bursting; yet no sigh would he let forth 
With vent to give it ease. There had I sat 
And died—but Heaven a stronger tyrant sent— 

Hunger—that wrench’d me from the other’s grasp, 

And dragg’d me hither !—This is not the lesson 
1 set myself to con ! 

Re-enter Maude. 

Maude. Tis noon, and yet 
No sign of Edwin ! Dost thou mind thy task ? 

Look to’t ! and when the cakes are fit to turn, 

Call, and I’ll come ! 

Alf. I’ll turn them, dame. 

Maude. You will ? 

You’ll break them J—Know I not your handy ways ? 

I would not suffer thee put finger to them ! 

Call, when ’tis time ! You’ll turn the cakes, forsooth ! 

As likely thou coula’st make the cakes as turn them ? 

[Coes out 

Alf. So much for poverty ! Adversity’s 
The nurse for kings ;—but then the palace gates 
Are shut against her ! They would else have hearts 
Of mercy oft’ner—gems not always dropp’d 
In fortune’s golden cup. What thought hath he 
How hunger warpeth honesty, whose meal 
Still waited on the hour ? Can he perceive 
How nakedness converts the kindly milk 





74 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHERIDAN KNOWLES 

Of nature into ice, to whom each change 
Of season—yea, each shifting ol the wind, 

Presents his fitting suit ? Knows he the storm 
That makes the valiant quail, who hears it only 
Through the safe wall—its voice alone can pierce ; 

And there talks comfort to him with the tongue, 

That bids, without, the shelterless despair 1 
Perhaps he marks the mountain wave, anti smiles 
So high it rolls !—while on its fellow hangs 
The fainting seaman glaring down at death 
In the deep trough below ! I will extract 
Riches from penury ; from sufferings 
Coin blessings ; that if I assume again 
The sceptre, I may be the more a king 
By being more a man ! 

Maude re-enters , goes towards the fire, lifts the cakes , goes to Alfied , 
them to him. 

Maude. Is this your care ? 

Ne’er did you dream that meal was made of corn, 

Which is not grown until the earth be plough’d : 

Which is not garner’d up until ’tis cut; 

Which is not fit for use until ’tis ground ; 

Nor used then till kneaded into bread ? 

Ne’er knew you this ? It seems you never did, 

Else had you known the value of the bread ; 

Thought of the ploughman’s toil : the reaper’s sweat; 

The miller’s labour ; and the housewife’s thrift; 

And not have left my barley cakes to burn 
To very cinders ! 

Alf. I forgot, good dame. 

Maude. Forgot, good dame, forsooth ! You ne’er forgot 
To eat my barley cakes ! ! 


21.— ATHELSTAN. Thierry. 

On the death of the good king Alfred, his son Edward, who had distinguished 
himself in the war with Hasting, was chosen by the Anglo-Saxon nobles and elder3. 
One of the sons of Alfred’s eldest brother, and predecessor, protested against this 
election, in virtue of his hereditary rights, and in contempt of the rights of the 
people. The electors of the English kings replied to this insolent and absurd claim, 
by declaring Ethelwald, the son of Ethelred, a rebel to his country, and condemning 
him to exile. Instead of submitting to the sentence lawfully passed upon him, this 
man, with some abettors of his ambition, took possession of the town of Wimburn 
on the south-west coast, vowing to hold it, or to perish. But he did not keep his 
oath ; at the approach of the English people, he fled, without coming to an engage¬ 
ment, and betaking himself to the Danes in Northumbria, became a heathen, and a 
pirate. They appointed him commander of the war against his countrymen. The 
rejected pretender to the throne made a pillaging inroad upon the lands of those 
who would not have him for their king, and was killed in the ranks of the 
foreigners whom he had led. Then king Edward assumed the offensive against the 
Danes : he regained from them the eastern coast, from the mouth of the Thames to 








ATHELSTAN. 


75 


THIERRY.] 

the gulf of Boston, and confined them to their northern possessions by a line of 
fortresses, erected in front of the Humber. His successor Athelstan passed the 
Humber, took the town of York, and forced the settlers of the Scandinavian race 
to swear obedience to him. One of the Danish chiefs was conducted with honour 
to the palace of the Saxon king, and admitted to his table ; but four days of a 
peaceful life w r ere sufficient to disgust him ; he escaped, gained the sea, and re¬ 
entered a pirate vessel, as incapable, says the ancient historian, as a fish of living 
out of the water. 

The Saxon army advanced as far as the shores of the Tweed, and Northumbria 
was added to the territories under the dominion of Athelstan, the first of all the 
English kings who reigned over the whole of England. In the flush of this victory 
the Anglo-Saxons overleapt their old northern boundary, and made an invasion on 
the Piets and Scots, and on the colony of ancient Britons, who inhabited the Yale 
of the Clyde. These various nations allied themselves with the Danes from be¬ 
yond sea, to .deliver their countrymen from the power of the southern men. Olave, 
or Aulaf, the son of Sigrie, the last Danish king of Northumbria, was made gene¬ 
ralissimo of the confederated armies, in which were joined to the men from the 
Baltic, the Danes of the Orcades, the Gauls of the Hebrides, armed with long two- 
handed broadswords, which they called glay-mores or great swords, the Gauls from 
the foot of the Grampian Hills, and the Cambrians of Dumbarton and Galloway, 
who carried long slender javelins. The two armies came to an engagement north 
of the Humber, in a place called in the Saxon language Brunan-burh, or the town 
of springs. The victory was decided in favour of the English, w T ho drove the con¬ 
federates back to their ships, their islands, and their mountains. The conquerors 
named this the day of the great fight, and sang of it in the national songs, of which 
some fragments are still preserved. 

[We subjoin this famous song of the battle of Brunanburh, from the translation of the 
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle in the “ Monumenta Historica.” Mr. George Darley, who has written 
a spirited tragedy on the story of Athelstan (orEthelstan), says “ The Saxon Ode on Brunan¬ 
burh Battle has always moved my heart more than a trumpet. That was the hardest-fought 
field, say our Chronicles, before Hastings, and all but as momentous in its jolitical conse¬ 
quences.”] 

Here Athelstan, king, 

of eorls the lord, 

of beorns the bracelet-giver, * 

and his brother eke 

Eadmund etheling, 

life-long-glory 

in battle won 

with edges of swords 

near Brunan-burh. 

The broad-wall they clove 
they hewed the war-lindens. 

Hamora lafan 
Offspring of Eadward, 
such was their noble nature 
from their ancestors, 
that they in battle oft 
’gainst every foe 
the land defended, 
hourds and homes. 












HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY, 


The foe they crushed, 

The Scottish people 
and the shipmen 
fated fell. 

The field ‘ daeniede’ 
with warriors blood, 
since the sun up 
at morning tide, 
mighty planet, 
glided o’er grounds, 

God’s candle bright, 
the eternal Soul’s, 
till the noble creature 
sank to her settle. 

There lay many a warrior 
by javelins strewed; 
Northern man 
over shield shot ; 
so the Scots eke, 
weary, war-sad. 
West-Saxons onwards 
throughout the day, 
in bands, 

pursued the footsteps 
of the loathed nations. 

They hewed the fugitives 
behind, amain, 
with swords mill-sharp. 
Mercians refused not 
the hard hand-plug 
to any heroes 
who with Aulaf, 
over the ocean, 
in the ship’s bosom, 
this land sought 
fated to the fight. 

Five lay 

on the battle-siead, 

youthful kings, 

by swords in slumber laid : 

so seven eke 

of Aulaf’s eorls; 

of the army countless, 

shipmen and Scots. 

There was made flee 
the north-men’s chieftain, 
bv need constrained, 
to the ship’s prow 
with a little band. 

The bark drove afloat: 
the king departed 
on the fallow flood, 




THIERRY.] 


ATHELSTAN. 


77 


his life preserved. 

So there eke the sage 
came by flight 
to his country north, 

Constantine, 
hoary warrior. 

He had no cause to exult 
in the communion of swords. 

Here was his kindred band 

of friends o’erthrown 

on the folk-stead, 

in battle slain ; 

and his son he left 

on the slaughter-place, 

mangled with wounds, 

young in the fight: 

he had no cause to boast, 

beorn grizzly-haired, 

of the vile clashing, 

the old deceiver ; 

nor Aulaf the more, 

with the remnant of their armies ; 

they had no cause to laugh 

that they in war’s works 

the better men were 

in the battle stead, 

at the conflict of banners, 

meeting of spears, 

concourse of men, 

traffic of weapons ; 

that they on the slaughter fieid 

with Eadward’s 

offspring played. 

The north-men departed 
in their nailed barks ; 
bloody relic of darts, 
on ‘ dinges’ ocean 
o’er the deep water 
Dublin to seek, 
again Ireland, 
shamed in mind. 

So to the brothers, 
both together, 
king and etheling, 
their country sought, 

West-Saxons’ land, 
in the war exulting. 

They left behind them, 
the corse to devour, 
the sallowy ‘pada’ 
and the swart raven 
with horned neb, 




78 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[THIERRY. 


and the dusky ‘ pada,’ 
erne white-tailed, 
the corse to enjoy, 
greedy war-hawk, 
and the grey beast, 
wolf of the wood. 

Carnage greater has not been 

in this island 

ever yet 

of people slain, 

before this, 

by edges of swords, 

as books us say, 

old writers, 

since from the east hither 
Angles and Saxons 
came to land, 
o’er the broad seas 
Britain sought, 
mighty war-smiths, 
the Welsh o’ercame, 
eorls most bold, 
this earth obtained. 









22.—EDWIN THE FAIR. 


Henry Taylor. 


[Mr. Taylor’s Drama of 1 Edwin the Fair ’ is full of grace and power, seizing, we have no 
doubt, upon the great historical truths of that age. We give a scene, with an extract from 
the Preface.] 

Mr. Turner’s learned and elaborate work has done much to make the Anglo- 
Saxon times better known than they were formerly, and we have ceased to regard 
them as antecedent to the dawn of civilization amongst us, or as destitute of the 
spiritual and chivalric features by which in reality some of the subsequent cen¬ 
turies (though not those immediately subsequent) were less distinguished than they. 
Of the dark ages, in this country, the tenth century was hardly so dark as the 
fifteenth; and if the asj)ects of each could be distinctly traced, the civil wars of the 
Anglo-Saxons would probably excite a deeper interest than struggles such as those 
of the Houses of York and Lancaster, in which there was no religious and hardly 
any political principle at stake. Indeed though the three centuries which preceded 
the Conquest were on the whole less enlightened than the three which followed it, 
yet the Anglo-Saxon times furnish examples of both the Hero and the Scholar, 
which the Norman can hardly match ; and perhaps the real distinction between the 
periods is, that amongst the Anglo-Saxons, learning and ignorance, and rudeness 
and refinement, co-existed in stronger contrast. 

But even when Anglo-Saxon history was less read and otherwise understood than 
it is now, some interest was always felt in the reign of Edwin the Fair. There was 
left to us little more than the outline of a tragic story; in some parts, indeed, even 
less—for here and there the outline itself is broken and wavering ; but the little 
that was known was romantic enough to have impressed itself upon the popular 
mind, and the tale of ‘ Edwy and Elgiva’ had been current in the nursery long 
before it came to be studied as an historical question. 










EDWIN THE FAIR. 


79 


H. TAYLOR.] 

Edwin’s contemporaneous annalists, being Monks, were his natural enemies ; and 
their enmity is sufficiently apparent in their writings. But notwithstanding all 
their efforts, and all the influence which the monastic orders undoubtedly possessed 
over the English populace of the tenth century, there is reason to think that the 
interest taken in Edwin’s story may have dated from his own times. His name 
having been supplanted by its diminutive ‘ Edwy,’ seems to indicate a senti¬ 
ment of tenderness and pity as popularly connected with him from the first ; and 
his surname of ‘The All-Fair’ (given him. says the Monk Ingulphus, “pro nimid 
pulchritudine”), may be construed as a farther indication that the success of the 
monastic faction in decrying him with the people, was not so complete as the merely 
political events of his reign might lead us to suppose. 

Whilst the details of his story are left, with one or two exceptions, to our imagi¬ 
nation, the main course of the struggle in which he was engaged, represents in 
strong and vivid colours the spirit of the times. It was a spirit which exercises 
human nature in its highest faculties and deepest feelings—the spirit of religious 
enthusiasm; a spirit which never fails to produce great men and to give an im¬ 
pulse to the mind of a nation; but one which commonly passes into a spirit of 
ecclesiastic discord, and which cannot then be cast out without tearing the body. 
In the tenth century it vented itself in a war of religious opinion. 


An apartment leading to an Oratory in the Royal residence at Sheen. 

As the Seem opens , Edwin and Elgiva are discovered before the altar in the Oratory , 
and Bicola, the King's Chaplain , is joining their hands. They all three then ad¬ 
vance out of the Oratory to the front, 

Ricola. So be ye one from this time forth for ever, 

And God for ever be your gracious guide 
In love and peace to live ! A hasty rite 
Hath solemnized your nuptials ; not the less 
Be ye observant of the sacred bonds 
Wherein ye stand contracted for all time. 

My sovereign Lord and Lady, ye are young, 

And these are times and yours beyond compare 
Stations of trial: be ye each to each 
Helpful, and fullest of comfort, next to God.. 

And so, my blessing poured in tears upon you, 

I bid you well to fare. 

Edwin. My honoured friend, 

We thank you for this service, one of many, 

But of .the many greatest. For awhile 
Our secret kept, the Queen abides with you. 

I must return to Kingston; but ere midnight 
Once more you’ll see me here. Farewell till then. 

Shortly the Queeri shall follow you. [Exit Ricola, 

Elgiva ! 

Oh, past expression beautiful and dear, 

And now my own for ever! Let my soul 
Be satisfied, for ’tis a joy so great 
To know thee mine, that nature for my bound 
Seems insufficient, and my spirit yearns 
Intent with thee to pass from this pale earth 








80 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[H. TAYLOR. 


Into that rosy and celestial clime 
Where life is ever thus. 

Elgiva. How joy fulfilled 

Makes the heart tremble! Now no change can coma 
That is not to be feared. 

Re-enter Ricola. 

Ricola. My lord, my liege, 

Forgive me—but I fear * * * * I’m old, my lord, 

And shake at trifles, but I strangely fear 
That mischief is afoot. 

Edwin. At Kingston ? 

Ricola. There, 

And coming hitherward ; the poor fool Grimbald 
Came flying like the scud o’ the storm before, 

To warn you. 

Edwin. And what saith he ? Call him in. 

Ricola goes to the door , and returns with Grimbald. 

Edwin. Well, my good fool, and what hast thou to tell? 

Grimbald. 

There was grace after meat with a fist on the board , 

And down went the morat , and out flew the sword. 

Elgiva. Truce to thy calling for a while, good fool, 

And tell us plainly what befell. 

Grimbald. By the ears 

The nobles went together ; in the fray 
The Horse-Thane and the Dish-Thane were o’erborne 
And sent to prison. Then I took to my heels 
To bring you word. 

Elgiva. Earl Athulf ? Where is he ? 

Grimbald. He stood against Harcather hand to hand 
When I departed ; but I know no more. 

Enter the Queen Mother. 

Queen Mother. So you are here, my son, and madam, you ? 

And is it for this you scurry from your place 
Is it for this you quit your noble guests ? 

Is it for this you vex the kingdom ? Yea, 

To shedding of blood—for there has blood been shed— 

For nought but this ? Oh, fie! for dalliance—oh ! 

And whilst you waste the hours in wantonness * * * 

Edwin. Good mother, speak of what you know. Not here 
Was either wantonness or waste of time. 

You little think how little idly spent 
Has been the hour that’s gone. 

Queen Mother. How spent 1 oh, son ! 

But here come those can speak. So ! here they come ! 

Enter Dunstan and Odo, with two or three Thanes following , who are gradually 
augmented as the. scene proceeds till the stage is filled with Dunstan’s adherents. 

Ricola. Wilt please you to withdraw ? 







H, TAYLOR. 


EDWIN THE FAIR. 


81 


Elgiva. I thank you, no. 

Edwin. Wherefore is this, my lord Archbishop 1 Why 
Dost thou pursue me to my privacy ? 

When I did leave you ’twas my will to leave you. 

Am I your king, or am I not ? 

Odo. Sir, sir, 

’Tis true, with suffrage of the Witcna, 

You were anointed with the holy oil 
And crowned this day by me. But deem not thence 
That you are free to spurn us. Rather deem 
That calls more urgent, bonds of stricter claim 
Enjoin the duties of your sovereignty ; 

Amongst which duties eminently first 
Is this, that when your lords and councillors, 

The pillars of the realm, in conference meet, 

You should be with them, wisely there to learn 
Erom the assembled Avisdom of the state. 

Edwin. ’TAvas for carousal, not for conference, 

They met to-day. 

Dunstan. Sirs, stand ye all apart, 

And suffer that I reason Avith the king, 

Whose youth betrays him. Oh unruly flesh ! 

Oh wanton blood of youth ! the primal sin ! 

The first offender still! The original snare ! 

Perdition came of Avoman, and alway since, 

When time was big AAnth mischief and mischance, 

He felt his forelock in a soft white hand. 

Elgiva. Of woman say’st thou that perdition came ? 

’Twas of the serpent, priest. 

Queen Mother. What, break’st thou in ? 

Thou bold and naughty jade! Thou pit! Thou snare ! 

Edwin. Oh, mother, hold ! Know you at whom you rail 
Deem her your daughter, or me not your son. 

Queen Mother. Thou art not and thou shalt not be my son 
If thou demean’st thyself to her—a witch ! 

A practise!’ of sorceries ! 

Edwin [kneeling]. Oh God! 

I pray thee that thou shorten not my days, 

Ceasing to honour this disnatured flesh 
That was my mother. 

Elgiva. Never was she that: 

Oh Edwin, had God granted thee a mother, 

What honour had we rendered her! 

Eunstan. Thou darest 

And see’st thou in what presence ? Be thou warned ! 

Thy witcheries that inflame this carnal king 
Ear other fires shall kindle in the church— 

The channel as of mercies, so of wrath. 

Thou stand’st before its excellent Archbishop, 

And me, its humblest minister : men both 
Dead to the flesh and loathing from their souls 








HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 

To company with women. To us thy charms 
Are flat and futile as thy sins are sharp, 

And spur us to that vengeance God inflicts 
Through us, on scorners. 

Edwin. Heed them not, Elgiva. 

Elgiva. Content thee ! never were they heeded less 
By God or by his angels than by me. 

Edwin. Insolent churchmen ! You renounce the worl 
All in it that is loving or can be loved, 

You’ll teach yourselves and others to renounce, 

Because cold vanities with meagre heats 
Alternate have consumed you to the core, 

And given your hearts the dry-rot. Meddlesome monks ! 
The love it is not in you or to feel 
Bor women, or from womankind to win, 

You ostentatiously deny yourselves, 

As atrophy denies itself to fatten. 

Elgiva. What worth are you to us, that set no store 
By you or by your threats % I tell thee, priest, 

I do make no account of thee. 

Dunstan. Fly hence, 

Pale prostitute ! Avaunt, rebellious fiend, 

Which speakest through her ! 

Elgiva. And I tell thee more, 

I am thy sovereign mistress and thy queen. 

Edwin. My lawful wedded wife. 

Queen-Mother. Ah, woe is me ! 

Odo. Thy lawful wife ? How lawful % By what law ? 
Incest and fornication ! 

Dunstan. Who art thou % 

I see thee, and I know thee—yea, I smell thee 
Again ’tis Satan meets me front to front, 

Again I triumph ! Where and by what rite, 

And by what miscreant minister of God 
And rotten member, was this mockery, 

That was no marriage, made to seem a marriage ? 

Ricola. Lord abbot, by no * * * * * 

Dunstan. What then, was it thou ? 

The church doth cut thee off and pluck thee out 
A Synod shall be summoned ! Chains for both 
Chains for this harlot, and for this cloy-priest! 

Oh wall of Jezreel! 

Edwin. Villains, stand ye back ! 

Stand from the queen * * * * Oh, had I but a sword ! 
What—felons ! Ye shall hang for this ere long. 

Loose me or I will * * * * 

Odo. Sir, be calm, and know 

’Tis for your own behoof and for your crown’s. 

Elgiva. Be of good comfort ; Edwin we shall meet 
Where none can part us. Are ye men ? Hold off! 

I will not put you to that shame to force me. 





H. TAILOR.] 


EDWIN THE FAIR. 


83 


Odo. Thou queen ! Go, get thee gone ! A crown for thee ! 

No, nor a head to put it on to morrow. 

Queen-Mother. Alack ! the law is sharp. But Gurmo, run, 

See she have Christian burial; speed thee, Gurmo. 

Dunstan. Madam, your pardon. Gurmo, wait on me. 

Edwin. Elgiva, oh Elgiva ! Oh, my wife ! 

I’ll find thee friends, though now * * * * Oh, traitors ! slaves ! 
When I have raised my force, I’ll bring you bound 
With halters round your necks, to lick the dust 
Before her footstool. I will have you scourged 
By hangmen’s hands in every market town— 

Yes, you, my lords !—O woman, get thee hence ! 

I cast thee from me, and I curse the fate 

That made thy hateful womb my habitation 

Ere my blind soul could chuse. Perfidious monk ! 

Smilest thou, villain 1 But I will raise a force * * * [Exit. 

Dunstan. Lord Primate, thou hast crowned a baby’s brow. 

May it please you follow, lest he come to harm. [Exit Odo. 

Friends, quit not my Lord Primate. Follow all. 


[Exeunt all hut Harcather, who stays behind on a sign from Dunstan. 

Harcather, haste ; convey Elgiva hence 
With speed to Chester, and in strictest ward 

Confine her there ; but keep her life untouched. [Exit Harcather. 
So shall we brandish o’er the enamoured king 
A trenchant terror.—See we next what friends 
Will stead us in the Synod.—Break, thou storm ! 

My soul is ready.. Try thy strength against me. 


23 .— EDGAR AND ELFRIDA Hume. 

This prince, who mounted the throne in early youth, soon discovered an excellent 
capacity in the administration of affairs ; and his reign is one of the most fortunate 
that we meet with in the ancient English history. He showed no aversion to war; 
he made the wisest preparations against invaders : and by this vigour and fore¬ 
sight he was enabled, without any danger of suffering insults, to indulge his inclina¬ 
tion towards peace, and to employ himself in supporting and improving the internal 
government of Iris kingdom. He maintained a body of disciplined troops : which 
he quartered in the north, in order to keep the mutinous Northumbrians in sub¬ 
jection, and to repel the inroads of the Scots. He built and supported a powerful 
navy and that he might retain the seamen in the practice of their duty, and 
always present a formidable armament to his enemies, he stationed three squadrons 
off the coast, and ordered them to make, from time to time, the circuit of his 
dominions. The foreign Danes dared not to approach a country which appealed 
in such a posture of defence. The domestic Danes saw inevitable destruction to 
be the consequence of their tumults and insurrections. The neighbouiing so\e- 
reigns the King of Scotland, the Prince of Wales, of the Isle of Man, of the 
Orkneys, and even of Ireland, were reduced to pay submission to so formidable a 






6 4 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[nUMBc 


monarch. He carried his superiority to a great height, and might have excited an 
universal combination against him, had not his power been so well established as to 
deprive his enemies of all hopes of shaking it. It is said, that residing once at 
Chester, and having purposed to go by water to the abbey of St. John the Baptist, 
he obliged eight of his tributary princes to row him in a barge upon the Dee. The 
English historians are fond of mentioning the name of Kenneth III., King of Scots, 
among the number: the Scottish historians either deny the fact, or assert that, 
their king, if ever he acknowledged himself a vassal to Edgar, did him homage, not 
for his crown, but for the dominions which he held in England. 

But the chief means by which Edgar maintained his authority, and preserved 
public peace, was the paying of court to Dunstan, and the monks who had at first 
placed him on the throne, and who, by their pretensions to superior sanctity and 
purity of manners, had acquired an ascendant over the people. He favoured their 
scheme for dispossessing the secular canons of all the monasteries ; he bestow r ed 
preferment on none but their partizans ; he allowed Dunstan to resign the see of 
Worcester into the hands of Oswald, one of his creatures ; and to place Ethelwold, 
another of them, in that of Winchester ; he consulted these prelates in the ad¬ 
ministration of all ecclesiastical, and even in that of many civil affairs ; and though 
the vigour of his own genius prevented him from being implicitly guided by them, 
the king and the bishops found such advantage in their mutual agreement, that 
they always acted in concert, and united their influence in preserving the peace and 
tranquillity of the kingdom. 

In order to complete the great work of placing the new order of monks in all 
the convents, Edgar summoned a general council of the prelates and the heads of 
the religious orders. He here inveighed against the dissolute lives of the secular 
clergy ; the smallness of their tonsure, which, it is probable, maintained no longer 
any resemblance to the crown of thorns ; their negligence in attending the exercise 
of their function ; their mixing with the laity in the pleasures of gaming, hunting, 
dancing, and singing ; and their openly living with concubines, by which it is com¬ 
monly supposed he meant their wives. He then turned himself to Dunstan the 
primate ; and in the name of King Edred, whom he supposed to look down from 
heaven with indignation against all those enormities, he thus addressed him : “ It 
is you, Dunstan, by whose advice I founded monasteries, built churches, and ex¬ 
pended my treasure, in the support of religion and religious houses. You were my 
counsellor and assisted in all my schemes. You were the director of my con¬ 
science. To you I was obedient in all things. When did you call for supplies, 
which I refused you? Was my assistance ever wanting to the poor ? Did I deny 
support and establishments to the clergy and the convents ? Did I not hearken to 
your instructions, who told me that these charities were, of all others, the most 
grateful to my maker, and fixed a perpetual fund for the support of religion ? And 
are all our pious endeavours now frustrated by the dissolute lives of the priests ? 
Not that I know any blame on you : you have reasoned, besought, inculcated, 
inveighed : but it now behoves you to use sharper and more vigorous remedies ; 
and conjoining your spiritual authority with the civil power, to purge effectually 
the temple of God from thieves and intruders.” It is easy to imagine, that this 
harangue had the desired effect ; and that, when the king and prelates thus con¬ 
curred with the popular prejudices, it was not long before the monks prevailed, and 
established their new discipline in almost all the convents. 

We may remark, that the declamations against the secular clergy are, both here 
and in all the histories, conveyed in general terms ; and as that order of men are 
commonly restrained by the decency of their character, it is difficult to believe that 
the complaints against their dissolute manners could be so universally just as is 







EDGAR A 1ST) ELFRIDA. 


85 


HUME.] 

pretended. It is more probable that the monks paid court to the populace by an 
affected austerity of life ; and representing the most innocent liberties, taken by 
the other clergy, as great and unpardonable enormities, thereby prepared the way 
for the increase of their own power and influence. Edgar, however, like a true 
politician, concurred with the prevailing party, and he even indulged them in pre¬ 
tensions, wdiich, though they might, when complied with, engage the monks to 
support royal authority during his own reign, proved afterwards dangerous to his 
successors, and gave disturbance to the whole civil power. He seconded the policy 
of the court of Rome, in granting to some monasteries an exemption from episcopal 
jurisdiction. He allowed the convents, even those of royal foundation, to usurp 
the election of their own abbott : and he admitted their forgeries of ancient charters 
by which, from the pretended grant of former kings, they assumed many privileges 
and immunities. 

These merits of Edgar have procured him the highest panegyrics from the monks; 
and he is transmitted to us, not only under the character of a consummate states¬ 
man and an active prince, praises to which he seems to have been justly entitled, 
but under that of a great saint and a man of virtue. But nothing could more be¬ 
tray both his hypocrisy in inveighing against the licentiousness of the secular 
clergy, and the interested spirit of his partizans, in bestowing such eulogies on his 
piety, than the usual tenor of his conduct, which was licentious to the highest de¬ 
gree, and violated every law, human and divine. 

Elfrida was daughter and heir of Olgar, Earl of Devonshire ; and though she had 
been educated in the country, and had never appeared at court, she had filled all 
England with the reputation of her beauty. Edgar himself, who was indifferent to 
no accounts of this nature, found his curiosity excited by the frequent panegyrics 
which he heard of Elfrida; and reflecting on her noble birth, he resolved, if he 
found her charms answerable to their fame, to obtain possession of her on honour¬ 
able terms. He communicated his intentions to Earl Athelwold, his favourite ; but 
used the precaution, before he made any advances to her parents, to order that 
nobleman, on some pretence to pay them a visit, and to bring him a certain account 
of the beauty of their daughter. Athelwold, when introduced to the young lady 
found general report to have fallen short of the truth ; and being actuated by the 
most vehement love, he determined to sacrifice to this new passion his fidelity to 
his master, and to the trust reposed in him. He returned to Edgar, and told him, 
that the riches alone, and high quality of Elfrida, had been the ground of the admira¬ 
tion paid her, and that her charms, far from being anywise extraordinary, would have 
been overlooked in a woman of inferior station. When he had, by this deceit, 
diverted the king from his purpose, he took an opportunity, after some interval, of 
turning again the conversation on Elfrida. He remarked, that though the parentage 
and fortune of the lady had not produced on him, as on others, any illusion with 
regard to her beauty, he could not forbear reflecting that she would, on the whole, 
be°an advantageous match for him, and might by her birth and riches, make him 
sufficient compensation for the homeliness of her person. If the king, therefore, 
gave his approbation, he was determined to make proposals in his own behalf to 
the Earl of Devonshire, and doubted not to obtain his, as well as the young lady’s 
consent to the marriage. Edgar, pleased with an expedient for establishing his 
favourite’s fortune, not only exhorted him to execute his purpose, but forwarded 
his success by his recommendations to the parents of Elfrida ; and Athelwold was 
soon made happy in the possession of his mistress. Dreading, however, the detec¬ 
tion of the artifice, he employed every pretence for detaining Elfrida in the country, 
and for keeping her at a distance from Edgar. 

The violent passion of Athelwold had rendered him blind to the necessary con- 





g0 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [HOME. 

sequences which must attend liis conduct, and the advantages which the numerous 
enemies that always pursue a royal favourite, would, by its means, be able to make 
against him. Edgar was soon informed of the truth ; but before he would execute 
vengeance on Athelwold’s treachery, he resolved to satisfy himself with his own 
eyes of the certainty and full extent of his guilt. He told him, that he intended to 
pay him a visit in his castle, and be introduced to the acquaintance of his new- 
married wife ; and Athelwold, as he could not refuse the honour, only craved leaw e to 
go before him a few hours, that he might better prepare everything for his reception. 
He then discovered the whole matter to Elfrida; and begged her, if she had any regard 
either to her own honour or his life, to conceal from Edgar, by every circumstance 
of dress and behaviour, that fatal beauty which had seduced him from fidelity to 
his friend, and had betrayed him into so many falsehoods. Elfrida promised com¬ 
pliance, though nothing was farther from her intentions. She deemed herself little 
beholden to Athelwold for a passion which had deprived her of a crown ; and 
knowing the force of her own charms, she did not despair even yet of reaching that 
dignity, of which her husband’s artifice had bereaved her. She appeared before 
the king with all the advantages which the richest attire and the most engaging 
airs could bestow upon her, and she excited at once in his bosom the highest love 
towards herself, and the most furious desire of revenge against her husband. He 
knew, however, to dissemble these passions ; and seducing Athelwold into a wood, 
on pretence of hunting, he stabbed him with his own hand, and soon after publicly 
espoused Elfrida. 


24.— THE DANISH POWER. Burke. 

Edgar had two wives, Elflada and Elfrida ; by the first he had a son called 
Edward. The second bore him one, called Etheldred. On Edgar’s death Edward, 
in the usual order of succession, was called to the throne ; but Elfrida caballed in 
favour of her son ; and finding it impossible to set him up in the life of his brother, she 
murdered him with her own hands in her castle of Corfe, whither he had retired to 
refresh himself, wearied with hunting. Etheldred, who by the crimes of his mother 
ascended a throne sprinkled with his brother’s blood, had a part to act, which 
exceeded the capacity that could be expected in one of his youth and inexperience. 
The partisans of the secular clergy, who were kept down by the vigour of Edgar’s 
government, thought this a fit time to renew their pretensions. The monks defended 
themselves in their possession ; there was no moderation on either side, and the 
whole nation joined in these parties. The murder of Edward threw an odious stain 
on the king, though he was wholly innocent of that crime. There was a general 
discontent ; and every corner was full of murmurs and cabals. In this state of the 
kingdom it was equally dangerous to exert the fulness of the sovereign authority, 
or to suffer it to relax. The temper of the king was most inclined to the latter 
method, which is of all things the worst. A weak government, too easy, suffers 
evils to grow, which often make the most rigorous and illegal proceedings necessary. 
Through an extreme lenity it is on some occasions tyrannical. This was the 
condition of Etheldred’s nobility; who by being permitted everything, were never 
contented. 

Thus all the principal men held a sort of factious and independent authority ; 
they despised the king ; they oppressed the people, and they hated one another. The 
Danes, in every part of England but Wessex as numerous as the English themselves, 
and in many parts more numerous, were ready to take advantage of these disorders; 
and waited with impatience some new attempt from abroad, that they might rise in 





THE DANISH POWER. 


87 


BURKE.] 

favour of the invaders. They were not long without such an occasion ; the Danes 
pour in almost upon every part at once, and distract the defence which the weak 
prince was preparing to make. 

In those days of wretchedness and ignorance, when all the maritime parts of 
Europe were attacked by these formidable enemies at once, they never thought of 
entering into any alliance against them ; they equally neglected the other obvious 
method to prevent their incursions, which was, to carry the war into the invader’s 

country. 

"What aggravated these calamities, the nobility, mostly disaffected to the king, 
and entertaining very little regard to their country, made, some of them, a weak and 
cowardly opposition to the enemy ; some actually betrayed their trust ; some even 
were found, who undertook the trade of piracy themselves. It w r as in this condition, 
that Edric, Duke of Mercia, a man of some ability, but light, inconstant, and utterly 
devoid of all principle, proposed to buy a peace from the Danes. The general weak¬ 
ness and consternation disposed the king and the people to take this pernicious 
advice. At first, 10,00(K. was given to the Danes, who retired with this money and 
the rest of their plunder. The English were now, for the first time, taxed to supply 
this payment. The imposition was called Danegelt, not more burthensome in the 
thing, than scandalous in the name. The scheme of purchasing peace not only 
gave rise to many internal hardships, but, whilst it weakened the kingdom, it inspired 
such a desire of invading it to the enemy, that Sweyn, king of Denmark, came in 
person soon after with a prodigious fleet and army. The English, having once 
found the method of diverting the storm by an inglorious bargain, could not bear 
to think of any other way of resistance. A greater sum, 48,000£ was now paid, 
which the Danes accepted wuth pleasure, as they could by this means exhaust their 
enemies and enrich themselves with little danger or trouble. With very short 
intermissions they still returned, continually increasing their demands. In a few 
years they extorted upwards of 160,000£ from the English, besides an annual 
tribute of 48,000£. The country was wholly exhausted both of money and spirit. 
The Danes in England, under the protection of the foreign Danes, committed a 
thousand insolencies; and so infatuated w T ith stupidity and baseness w~ere the 
English at this time, that they employed hardly any other soldiers for their defence. 

In this state of shame and misery, their sufferings suggested to them a design 
rather desperate than brave. They resolved on a massacre of the Danes ; some 
authors say, that in one night the whole race was cut off. Many, probably all the 
military men, were so destroyed. But this massacre, injudicious as it was cruel, 
was certainly not universal; nor did it serve any other or better end than to ex¬ 
asperate those of the same nation abroad ; who the next year landed in England 
with a powerful army to revenge it, and committed outrages even beyond the usual 
tenour of the Danish cruelty. There was in England no money left to purchase a 
peace, nor courage to wage a successful war ; and the King of Denmark, Sweyn, a 
prince of capacity, at the head of a large body of brave and enterprising men, soon 
mastered the whole kingdom, except London. Ethcldred, abandoned by fortune 
and his subjects, was forced to fly into Normandy. 

As there was no good order in the English affairs, though continually alarmed, 
they were always surprised ; they were only roused to arms by the cruelty of the 
enemy ; and they were only formed into a body by being driven from their homes; 
so that they never made a resistance until they seemed to be entirely conquered. 
This may serve to account for the frequent sudden reductions of the island, and 
the frequent renewals of their fortune when it seemed the most desperate. Sweyn, 
in the midst of his victories, dies ; and, though succeeded by his son Canute, who 
inherited his father’s resolution their .affairs were thrown into some disorder by 





68 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[BURKE. 

this accident. The English were encouraged by it. Etheldred was recalled, and 
the Danes retired out of the kingdom ; but it was only to return the next year 
with a greater and better appointed force. Nothing seemed able to oppose them. 
The king dies. A great part of the land was surrendered, without resistance, to 
Canute. Edmund, the eldest son of Etheldred, supported, however, the declining 
hopes of the English for some time ; in three months he fought three victorious 
battles ; he attempted a fourth, but lost it by the base desertion of Edric, the 
principal cause of all these troubles. It is common with the conquered side to 
attribute all their misfortunes to the treachery of their own party. They choose 
to be thought subdued by the treachery of their friends, rather than the superior 
bravery of their enemies. All the old historians talk in this strain ; and it must 
be acknowledged, that all adherents to a declining party have many temptations to 
infidelity. 

Edmund, defeated but not discouraged, retreated to the Severn, where he re¬ 
cruited his forces. Canute followed at his heels. And now the two armies were 
drawn up, which were to decide the fate of England ; when it was proposed to de¬ 
termine the war by single combat between the two kings. Neither was unwilling; 
the Isle of Alney, in the Severn, was chosen for the lists ; Edmund had the advan¬ 
tage by the greatness of his strength, Canute by his address ; for when Edmund 
had so far prevailed as to disarm him, he proposed a parley; in which he persuaded 
Edmund to a peace, and to a division of the kingdom. Their armies accepted the 
agreement; and both kings departed in a seeming friendship. But Edmund died 
soon after, with a probable suspicion of being murdered by the instruments of his 
associate in the empire. 

Canute on this event assembled the states of the kingdom, by whom he was 
acknowledged King of England. He was a prince truly great ; for having acquired 
the kingdom by his valour, he maintained and improved it by his justice and 
clemency. Choosing rather to rule by the inclination of his subjects than the right 
of conquest, he dismissed his Danish army, and committed his safety to the laws. 
He re-established the order and tranquillity which so long a series of bloody wars 
had banished. He revived the ancient statutes of the Saxon princes ; and governed 
through his whole reign with such steadiness and moderation, that the English 
were much happier under this foreign prince than they had been under their 
natural kings. Canute, though the beginning of his reign was stained with those 
marks of violence and injustice which attend conquest, was remarkable in his 
latter end for his piety. According to the mode of that time, he made a pilgrimage 
to Rome, with a view to expiate the crimes which paved his way to the throne ; 
but he made a good use of this peregrination, and returned full of the observations 
he had made in the country through which he passed, which he turned to the 
benefit of his extensive dominions. They comprehended England, Denmark, Nor¬ 
way, and many of the countries which lie upon the Baltick. Those he left, estab¬ 
lished in peace and security, to his children. The fate of his northern possessions 
is not of this place. England fell to his son Harold, though not without much 
competition in favour of the sons of Edmund Ironside ; while some contended for 
the right of the sons of Etheldred, Alfred and Edward. Harold inherited none of 
the virtues of Canute ; he banished his mother Emma, murdered his half-brother 
Alfred, and died without issue after a short reign full of violence, weakness, and 

crueltv 

•/ 

His brother Hardicanute, who succeeded him, resembled him in his character • 
he committed new cruelties and injustices in revenging those which his brother 
had committed, and he died after a yet shorter reign. The Danish power estab¬ 
lished with so much blood, expired of itself; and Edward, the only surviving son 









THE DANISH POWER. 


89 


BURKE.] 


of Etheldrcd, then an exile in Normandy, was called to the throne by the unani¬ 
mous voice of the kingdom. 


25 .—CANUTE. C. Mac Farlane. 

Unlike his father Sweyn, Canute was a thorough and an enthusiastic Christian. 
His father had permitted the worshippers of Odin to destroy the Christian churches 
and to revive the abominations of human sacrifices; but Canute laid the pagan 
temples prostrate, shattered the grim idols, and forbade the inhuman rites. He 
built many churches, and drew good preachers and teachers into Denmark, Nor¬ 
way. and Sweden, by liberally granting them houses and lands. He had the glory 
of completing the conversion of the Scandinavian race, and of destroying a faith 
which was calculated to perpetuate the spirit of war and cruelty. By his exertions 
and encouragement the Gospel was firmly established in all the cultivated districts; 
the old idolatry was driven to the sequestered woods and wilds in the isles of 
Fionia, Laalana, and Falster, where some faint vestiges of it are still to be traced in 
popular usages and traditions; churches, cathedrals, monasteries and abbeys, with 
their several schools and out-chapels, were erected, and filled in good part with 
Saxon priests, who gave back to Scandinavia the spiritual benefits their forefathers 
had received from the Italian missionaries of Pope Gregory, and who also imparted 
many temporal advantages by teaching the Danes and Norwegians sundry arts 

which they had hitherto neglected and despised. 

The tranquillity of England, which could have been secured only by wise and 
good government, was so perfect, that he was enabled to absent himself fiom the 
island frequently, and for long intervals, during none of which there appears to have 
been the least commotion or disaffection. Under his rule the country recovered rapidly 
from the desolation it had suffered, and assumed that aspect of internal ti anquillity 
and prosperity which it had enjoyed during the last years of the reign of King 
Alfred. Like that great sovereign, Canute was cheerful and accessible to all his 
subjects, whether Danes or Saxons, and took great pleasure in old songs and ballads, 
and in the society of poets and musicians. He most liberally patronised the scalds, 
minstrels, and gleemen,—the musicians and poets of the time,—and wrote verses 
himself in the Anglo-Saxon dialect which were orally circulated among the common 
people, and taken up and sung by them in the streets and market-places. His 
popularity was hereby greatly increased. It does not appear that he possessed 
anythin" like the learning and literary industry of the great Alfred, but his acquiie- 
ments must, for the time in which he lived, have been very considerable, and he 
must always take rank among the “ royal authors.” A ballad of his composition 
Ion" continued to be a favourite with the English people. All of it is lost except 
thc°first verse, which has been preserved through the monkish chroniclers of the 
"reat house of Ely, who were more interested than all other men in its preserva¬ 
tion for it was written in praise of their establishment, to which Canute and his 
queen were great benefactors. The interesting royal fragment is simply this . 

Merie sungen the muneehes bmnen Ely 
Tha Cnut Ching rew thereby; 

Roweth, cnihtes, noer the land, 

And here we thes muneehes saeng. 

That is literally,— 

Merrily (sweetly) sung the monks within E]y 
(When) that Cnute King rowed thereby 
Row, knights, near the land, 

And hear we these monks’ song. 







90 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C. MAC FARLANE. 

Being in verse and in rhyme, it is thought that Canute’s words are reported in 
their original form; or that they cannot at any rate have been much altered. The 
verses are said to have been suggested to the royal Dane one day as he was rowing 
with some of his warlike chiefs on the river Nene near Ely Minster, by hearing the 
sweet and solemn music of the monastic choir floating on the air and along the 
tranquil water. The Ely historian says that in his day, after the lapse of a hundred 
and fifty years, the song was publicly sung among the people, and remembered in 
proverbs. 

The monks say that he had a singular affection for the fen-country, and for their 
church, which was even then a magnificent structure ; and that he several times 
took occasion to keep the festival of the Purification of the Virgin Mary with great 
solemnity and a boundless hospitality at Ely Abbey. They tell one story which is 
both picturesque and humorous. 

One year, at the season of the Purification, the weather was uncommonly severe, 
and all the rivers, meres, and surrounding waters were frozen over. The courtiers 
recommended the king to put off his visit to Ely, and keep that holy festival in 
some other godly house, whither he might repair without the risk of being drowned 
under breaking ice ; but such was the love the king bore to the abbot and monks 
of Ely, that he could not be prevailed upon to take this advice. Canute proposed 
going over the ice by Soham mere, which was then an immense sheet of water, 
declaring that if any one would go before and show him the way, he would be the 
first to follow. The courtiers and soldiers hesitated, and looked at one another with 
some confusion. But there chanced to be standing among the crowd one Brithmer, 
a churl or serf, a native of the Isle of Ely, and nicknamed Budde or Pudding, from 
his stoutness; and this fat man stood forth and said that he would go before the 
king and show him the way. “ Then go on in. the name of our Lady,” said Canute, 
“ and I will follow ; for if the ice on Soham mere can bear a man so large and fat 
as thou art, it will not break under the weight of a small thin man like me ! ” And 
so the churl went forward, and Canute the Great followed him, and the courtiers, 
one by one, and with intervals between, followed the king ; and they all got safely 
across the mere, with no other mishap than a few slips and tumbles on the slip¬ 
pery ice, and Canute even as he had proposed kept the festival of the Purification 
with the monks of Ely. And in recompense for his opportune services the fat man 
Brithmer was made a free man, and his little property was made free ; “ and so,” 
concludes the chronicler, “ Brithmer’s posterity continue in our days to be freemen, 
and to enjoy their possessions as free by virtue of the grant made by the king to 
their forefather.” 

In the year 1030 our great monarch of the north made a pilgrimage to Rome, 
with a view, it is said, to expiate the bloodshed and crimes which paved his way to 
the English throne. There can be no reasonable doubt that his devotion and 
superstition had much to do with this long journey ; but Canute may also have 
been impelled by other strong motives, for there was still much to learn, in govern¬ 
ment and the useful arts, at the eternal city, and it seems that a sort of royal and 
ecclesiastical congress had been appointed to meet there this year, to deliberate 
upon the means of bettering the condition of Christendom. Whatever were the 
mixed motives and objects of the journey, it is admitted that it was highly bene¬ 
ficial to the heart and understanding of Canute, and to the peoples over whom he 
ruled. He is represented as starting on his journey to Rome equipped like a com¬ 
mon pilgrim, with a wallet on his back, and a pilgrim’s staff in his hand ; his earls, 
knights, and other attendants being equipped in the like manner. The departure 
and the journey must have abounded in picturesque incidents. Alfred when a boy 
had gone the same road with his father, had crossed the same stupendous moun- 


CANUTE. 


91 


C. MAC FARLANE.] 

tains by tlie same rugged paths, and bad paused and knelt on the same sunny 
slopes from which the wayfarer catches the first view of the eternal city. 

On recrossing the Alps, Canute did not make his way direct to England, but 
went into Denmark, where he stayed several months, having apparently still some 
troubles and difficulties to settle in that country, where his countrymen complained 
more than once of the partiality he showed to the English. He, however, dispatched 
the abbot of Tavistock with a long letter of explanation, command, advice, and ex* 
hortation, appressed to “ Egelnoth the Metropolitan, to Archbishop Alfric, to the 
bishops and chiefs, and to all the nation of the English, both nobles and commoners, 
greeting.” This interesting letter, remarkable for its mildness and simplicity, ap¬ 
pears to have been carefully treasured. It is given entire by that best of English 
chroniclers William of Malmesbury, who was born about the time of the Norman 
conquest, and the substance of it is given by several old Danish and Norwegian 
chroniclers. It has been well said that it contrasts singularly with the early educa¬ 
tion of the son of the fierce and heathen Sweyn, and with the first acts of Canute’s 
own reign. It begins with explaining the spiritual motives of his late pilgrimage, 
and the nature of the spiritual power of the successor of St. Peter. It then 
continues :— 

And be it known to you all, that at the solemn festival of Easter there was held 
a great assemblage of illustrious persons; to wit, the Pope John, the Emperor 
Conrad, and the chiefs cf all the nations (omnes principes gentium) from Mount 
Garganus to our own northern sea. They all receiv ed me w ith distinction, and 
honoured me with rich presents. I have received vessels of gold and silver, and 
cloaks and garments of great price. I discoursed with the lord pope, the lord 
emperor, and the other princes, on the grievances of my people, English as well as 
Danes. I endeavoured to obtain for my people justice and security in their journeys 
to Rome ; and above all, that they might not henceforward be delayed on the road 
by the shutting up of the mountain-passes, the erecting of barriers, and the exaction 
of heavy tolls. My demands were granted both by the emperor and King Rudolph, 
who are masters of most of the passes ; and it was enacted that all my people, as 
well merchants as pilgrims, should go to Rome and return in full security, without 
being detained at the barriers, or forced to pay unlawful tolls. I also complained 
to the lord pope that such enormous sums had been extorted up to this day from 
my archbishops, when, according to custom, they went to the Apostolic See to 
obtain the pallium ; and a decree was forthwith made that this grievance likewise 
should cease. Wherefore I return sincere thanks to God that I have successfully 
done all that I intended to do, and have fully satisfied all my wishes. And now, 
therefore be it know r n to you all, that I have dedicated my life to God, to govern 
my kingdoms with justice, and to observe the right in all things. If m the time 
that is past and in the violence and carelessness of youth, I have violated justice, 
it is my intention, by the help of God, to make full compensation. Therefore I 
beg and command those unto whom I have intrusted the government, as they wish 
to'preserve my good will, and save their own souls, to do no injustice either to poor 
or rich. Let those who are noble and those who are not, equally obtain their rights, 
according to the laws, from which no deviation shall be allowed, either from fear of 
me, or through favour to the powerful, or for the purpose of supplying my treasury. 

I want no money raised by injustice. ,, ■, , A 

It is said that after the visit to Rome Canute was milder and juster than he had 
been before, and that inasmuch as he was concerned he acted up to the spirit of 
his famous letter. He reigned four or five years longer, and these appear to have 
been years of tranquillity and happiness for England. No power from beyond sea 
could touch our coast or dispute the sovereignty of the ocean with his fleets ; am 





02 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C. MAC FARLANE. 


the turbulent and marauding Scots, Cumbrians, and Welsh were chastised and kept 
in awe by his English militia. Malcolm, the Scottish king, is said to have become 
his liegeman, or to have acknowledged his supremacy. The “ Basileus” or emperor 
of the Anglo-Saxons—for this was the title which Canute took to himself in the 
latter part of his reign—could thus boast that the English, the Scotch, the Welsh, 
the Danes, the Swedes, and the Norwegians were his subjects ; and he was called 
the “ King of Six Nations.” Throughout Europe he was looked upon as the greatest 
of modern sovereigns. Conrad the emperor, who claimed to be the representative 
of the imperial Ccesars, and supreme head of the Christianised and holy Roman 
empire, might make a show of prouder titles, but in extent of real dominion, in 
wealth and power, Conrad was as nothing compared with Canute, the descendant 
of the pirates of Denmark. The ability, the energy, the industry, which could keep 
such vast and distant countries together, and bring so many barbarous, warlike, and 
cruel people within the pale of Christendom, must have been altogether extraordinary. 
The disseverance which immediately followed his death is a proof that the union 
depended on the personal character and genius for government of Canute the Great. 
In England he had the rare art and happiness to make a conquered people forget 
that they had been conquered, and that he was a conqueror and an alien. When 
the first cruel excesses were over, and when his throne was established in peace, 
the Anglo-Saxons appear to have ceased to consider him as a foreigner. The chro 
niclers scarcely ever allude to his foreign birth : with them he is “ Rex Noster— 
our King ; our King, just and good ; our pious King,” &c. No doubt his accom¬ 
plishments as a poet in the Anglo-Saxon language aided in bringing about this 
advantageous and rare result, which must have been further promoted by his 
reverence for the old Anglo-Saxon laws, by his zeal for the Christian religion, and 
by his exceeding liberality to the Anglo-Saxon church. 

It was after his return from Rome and when he was in the plenitude of his 
power, that the following universally known incident is related of him and his 


flattering courtiers. One day, disgusted with their extravagant adulations, he 
determined to read these courtiers a practical lesson. He caused his golden throne 
to be placed on the verge of the sands on the sea-shore as the tide was rolling in 
with its resistless might, and putting his jewelled crown upon his head, and seating 
himself upon the throne, he addressed the ocean, and said—“ Ocean ! The land 
on which I sit is mine, and thou art a part of my dominion ; therefore rise not, 
but obey my commands, nor presume to wet the edge of my royal robe.” He sat 
for some time silent with his eye fixed on the broad water as if expecting obedience ; 
but the sea rolled on in its immutable course, succeeding waves broke nearer and 
nearer to his feet, the spray flew in his face, and at length the skirts of his garment 
were wetted and his legs were bathed by the waves. Then, rising and turning to 
his flatterers, Canute said—“ Confess now how frivolous and vain is the might of 
an earthly king compared to that Great Power who rules the elements, and says 
unto the ocean, Thus far shalt thou go and no farther ! ” The monks conclude the 
epilogue by saying that he forthwith took off his crown, and depositing it in the 
cathedral of Winchester, never wore it again. 









REV. J. WHITE.] 


EARL GODWIN. 


93 


26.—EARL GODWIN. Rev. J. White. 


[In giving the first of a series of Dramatic Scenes from English History, written expressly 
for this work , the Editor desires to prefix a few observations as to the general purpose, both 
of the original and the selected scenes. Coleridge has a fine poetical dream of the advan¬ 
tages of rendering our National History popular through the stage :—“ In my happier days, 
while I had yet hope and onward-looking thoughts, I planned an historical drama of King 
Stephen, in the manner of Shakspere. Indeed, it would be desirable that some man of 
dramatic genius should dramatize all those [reigns] omitted by Shakspere, as far down as 
Henry VII. Perkin Warbeck would make a most interesting drama. A few scenes of Mar¬ 
lowe’s Edward II. might be preserved. * * * * It would be a fine national custom to 

act such a series of dramatic histories in orderly succession, in the yearly Christmas holi¬ 
days ; and could not but tend to counteract that mock cosmopolitism which under a positive 
term really implies nothing but a negation of, or indifference to, the particular love of 


country.” 

That “ some man of dramatic genius should dramatize all those reigns omitted by Shak¬ 
spere,” is, the Editor fears, a vain hope. That managers of our theatres should “ act such 
a series of dramatic histories in orderly succession, in the yearly Christmas holidays,” is 
scarcely to be expected, even if they had the dramas at hand to act. But it is possible that this 
beautiful illusion of Coleridge may be realized to a limited extent, by collecting together a series 
of historical scenes “ in orderly succession.” The real difficulty in fully carrying such a series 
through the history of England, before and after the reigns to which Shakspere has given an un¬ 
fading lustre, consists in the painful inferiority of most of our historical dramatists, as compared 
with Shakspere, rather than in the total want of dramas having relation to those reigns which 
he has not touched. We chiefly allude to the dramatists after the Restoration—the poets of 
the so-called Augustan age, who saw the value of English historical subjects, but dealt with 
them in a prosaic spirit. Dryden and Rowe, we fear, are scarcely exceptions ; the revival of 
Hughes, or Rymer, or Ravenscroft, or A. Hill, or Bancroft, or Lord Orrery, or A. Phillips, or 
Crowne * or Jerningham, or Banks, or Brooke, would not be a propitious advent for poetry or 
patriotism. But although, as a whole, no existing drama (perhaps with the exception of 
Marlowe’s Edward II. considerably altered) could take the highest rank in such a series of 
dramatic histories as Coleridge contemplated, there are some which supply detached Scenes 
of great merit, and which may be selected to exhibit some continuous pictures of English 
history The wonderful series of histories which Shakspere has left us of the division and 
dissent'ion of the renowned houses of Lancaster and York,”—a series written, most probably, 
upon a plan of connexion, has no gaps to be filled up. For nearly a hundred rears the 
course of events rolls on in almost unbroken succession, exhibiting the most striking actions 
and characters which our history can supply. But even in a selection of Scenes from other 
dramatic poets of various periods, imperfect as it may be, the true life of history may be pre¬ 
served • and the end may be steadily kept in view which Coleridge has described as tne chief 
object of the historical drama which Shakspere realized,—“ that of familiarizing the people 
to the great names of their country, and thereby of exciting a steady patriotism, a love of 
just liberty, and a respect for all those fundamental institutions of social life which bind men 

The Editor will necessarily have obligations to recent historical plays, without vhich this 
selection would be somewhat meagre. These afford some Scenes, which, in many of the 
essentials of poetry, maybe placed, without disadvantage, side by side with passages from 
the earlier dramatists. The nature of this work, as well as the Editor’s respect for the lig ts 
of literary property, will prevent him abusing the privilege of quotation from these sources. 

In the original Scenes he has the especial aid of his friend the Rev. James V iiite , from 






94 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[REV. J. WHITE. 


one of whose dramas an extract has been given in “ Half-Hours with the b ° S t ^^°r^. The 
subjects wliicb will be thus treated, are chiefly those wh.ch have been pas ed ove b^ d. .matte 
writers of adequate power, or wholly neglected. These new passages will aun at comeji „ 
the broad historical truth in a picturesque lorrn.j 






Hardicanute, son of Canute the Great and Emma of Normandy died m 1042, 
leaving Edward Atheling, his half brother,—afterwards known as Edward the Con¬ 
fessor, heir to the English crown. At this time almost all the wealth and power 
of the kingdom were in the hands of Earl Godwin and his sons. Little was wanted 
to their ambition but the name of king ; and Edward who was of a weak an 
superstitious character, would willingly have resigned Ins pretensions and immured 
himself in a monastery. But opposition was made to Godwin s designs by some 
of the other nobles, (particularly by Leofric, Earl of Mercia), and he suddenly 
changed his plans. When Edward sought an interview, on Hardicanute s death, 
and begged his protection, and license to depart for Normandy, where his youth 
had been passed,—the English Earl insisted on his taking possession of his inherit¬ 
ance, and promised to support him against all enemies, on condition that he would 
marry his daughter, Edith the Fair, and so become connected with his family, this 
agreement was fulfilled, and Edward mounted the throne. 


A Hall in Godwin's House. A crowd of his adherents — Harold , Leof ric , Thurlcell 

Godwin. 


The passing bell is heard—it stops. 

Godwin. So sleeps the king ; the last of foreign kings ! 

The Dane shall squeeze no more the English grape 
Into his cup. In Hardicanute’s tomb 
Lies English slavery, never on this soil 
To plant its pestilental foot. 

Thurlcell. Amen ! 

Godwin. Who speaks the word ? 

Thurlcell. Thurkell the Dane. 

Godwin. And you,— 

With your wild locks still powder’d by the salt 
Of Baltic waves, and your rough throat still dry 
With pirate shouting, join you in our pray’r ? 

Thurlcell. Aye ; for the Baltic wave that dashed its foam 
Among these locks is long since sunk to rest ; 

The pirate cry has ceased ; I have a home 
On English ground ; the land that gives me food 
Is all I own for country. Dane no more 
I’m English all, and so—God save the Eari! 

Adherents. The earl' the earl ! God save the English earl! 
Godwin. You’re silent Leofric ; has your heart grown cold 
To Godwin ? 

Leofric. There is not a pulse in it all 
That thrills not like a harp-string at the name. 

Honour I owe you ; gratitude I owe ; 

Respect and truest service—but no more. 








EARL GODWIN. 


95 


REV J. WHITE.] 

Godwin. Well man, they’ll do till we make farther claim— 

I heard no words that took a higher flight 
Than blessings on my head ; and you are silent. 

My fair-hair’d Harold, Leofric is your friend 

But not your father’s friend. He shared your sports 

From boyish days. He has kept by your reeking side, 

When your hot charger shook the Norsemen’s lines 
Swept the same seas with you, with emulous flag ; 

Drank with you, sung with you, laughed and frowned as you did ; 
And now he grudges to these grizzling locks 
A blessing,—a poor blessing. 

Leofric. Oh not so ! 

Harold, I need not these appealing looks,— 

Nor memory of our old companionship, 

Nor the dear household thoughts that nestle here 
Like building swallows when their flight is done— 

Nor voice of the past; nor future hope, but thus 
On bended knee, with hand held up to heaven, 

God bless Earl Godwin,—guard of the English throne ! 

Tliurkell. Guard of a few crossed sticks and a. plain board 
Covered with red brocade,—a noble State ! 

Heaven send a joiner, for the poor old chair 
Is ricketty grown. 

Leofric. It grows to nobleness 

When justice fills it. English Edward lives 
Son of our English Ethelred, with blood 
Ripen’d to redness in the veins of Kings, 

Since Ella’s forehead throbb’d beneath the crown. 

Harold. A likely king, if dancing earn’d a throne. 

Why man this scented, feather’d popinjay 
Scarce knows the stiff old Saxon for a king, 

But clips in French ;—a mongrel tongue it is— 

Fit but for women’s lips to gossip with. 

Leofric. He’s rightful lord, dear Harold— 

Harold. tie a lord ! 

A lady he is,—for never a beard has he— 

Or a lean friar, for after trying an hour 
To pinch his waist, and step on his toe points 
Like his French kinswomen,—down he’ll fall in ashes 
And lie all night before a niche in a wall— 

Then forth he’ll trip again, with paint on his cheeks, 

And if you show him a shield of stout old brass, 

Dinted with Scottish blows—mercie ! quoth he, 

These ugly dints have spoilt a looking glass ; 

And then he combs his hair, and from his hand 
Pulls he a glove, thin as a gossamer, 

And look, says he, how brown this hand hath grown 
When its as white'as milk. Be king who likes 
T’m subject of a man ! 

Leofric. 

I’m true to Edward. 


Be false who likes 













half-hours of English histort. 


[rev. j. white, 


Harold (with dignity). Earl of Mercia ! 

I pray you, weigh the matter of my speech ; 

The maimer was too light in such a cause, 

And used in freedom of the love that bound us— 

I thought that bond was stronger than it seems. 

Leofric. A coward’s tongue grows bold in a king’s service. 

Harold. And a friend’s cold. 

Leofric. Affection has no place 

When duty bars the door and guards the threshold. 

Harold. Look you, Earl Leofric, a poor scholar am T, 

And having never passed to foreign courts, 

Nor listed Norman poets, or sage men, 

I’m deaf to figures of speech, and never can tell 
Whether a fiddle be in tune or not ; 

But this I know; that if this realm of England 
Claims for its king, the man that fits her best.— 

Whoe’er he be—knight, peasant, prince or earl, 

This sword shall be his fence ’gainst all the world, 

And shall break down the gate that duty bars, 

And cross the threshold it pretends to guard. 

Leofric. There may be swords as true of steel as your's, 

And arms as strong—I’ve cleft a Norseman’s helm 
As deep as Harold. 

Harold. ’Twas of softer metal 

Than Harold’s helmet if the sword you vaunt 
Cleft it an inch o’ the crest. 

Godwin. Harold—for shame— 

Leofric—my sons—I think I’ve called you so 
Ere now ; and Leofric smiled to hear the word. 

What!—foolish boys,—if Edith heard the brawl, 

’Twould bring a frown on her fair brow, for both 
Are very dear to her ; aye, and to me— 

Come, come, shake hands, shake hands ! 

Harold. From a true heart 

Comes this true grasp, my brother— 

Adherents. Godwin ! Godwin ! 

To the throne Godwin ! to the throne, to the throne. 

Leofric — [ drops Harold’s hand, 

I cannot strain your hand, since from its clasp 
Comes music so ill omen’d. 

Harold ’Tis a tune 
To dance to tho’ the floor were wrapt in fire— 

But keep your grasp till on some other field 
I answer it with mine ! 

Godwin. Chafe not, son Harold, 

He who would bend the bow must hold his breath— 

Go, Leofric, go in peace. Leave as unsaid 

What has been said, unheard what has been heard— 

Find Edith in the garden bower she raised 







EARL GODWIN. 


37 


REV. J. WHITE.] 


When summer brought the flowers, and you gave help 
To train the honeysuckle round it—go.— 

Harold. And tell her she is Harold’s sister, earl, 

And Godwin’s daughter. 

Leofric. IVIore than all to me 

Pure soul’d and true of heart to land and kiDg. [Exit. 

Godwin. Earls ! Franklins, and true friends! if we have won 
By honest toil and a stout English spirit 
A foremost place in your brave English breasts, 

I pray you give your love some breathing space 
Nor urge it hotly into untried ways, 

Like slot-hounds that outrun the game they’d follow. 

Call back your words, till, in a mounting tide 
They clasp the shore, back’d by innumerous waves 
Sent landward by the great and rous’d up sea;— 

Then if old Godwin’s name has the home clang 
Of a well-known sweet tune,—why, sing it sirs, 

And one rough voice shall join you in the chorus. 

Adherents. Godwin! Godwin!—We shall be true to Godwin! 

Enter an Attendant. 


Attendant. Edward the son of Ethelred makes request 
To see Earl Godwin. 

Godwin. Comes he mounted ? arm’d 1 

Attended ? follow’d % 

Attendant. Singly, on foot he comes 

With but one holy priest to be his guard. 

Thurkell. ’Gainst witchcraft, and the evil eye, and the spit 
Of toads ; and to exorce him of the fiend, 

An excellent body guard, a holy priest. 

Godwin. Hush Thurkell, there’s a corner of your heart 
Where Thor still swings his hammer. Leave me, friends, 

I’d see this youth alone. [Exeunt Adherents.] Bid him approach 
And leave that holy priest outside the gate. [Exit Attendant 

His reverence has a trick to raise the devil 
As well as lay him. 

Enter Edward. 


Edward. You will save my life, 

Godwin, I know you will ; for tho’ your eye 
Glows sometimes with hot fire, it soon subsides 
Into the gentle warmth of kindliness. 

Godwin. Who threats your life, Prince Edward ? 

Edward. • Ob • no ^ so 

Call me not prince, ’tis that which brings the peril, 

It is no fault of mine I’m Ethelred’s son, 

And on my knee I pray you to your guard 
Take me Earl Godwin! Godwin, like the cry 
Of sentinels on a beleaguer d wall 
Is on all tongues; so let me lead the life 

I’ve led so long, ere Hardicanute died. ... , 

Godwin. What life was that ? I thought that royal blood 

Gave mounting thoughts. 


II 







98 


EALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 




[REV. J. WHITE. 


Edward . I led a peaceful life ; 

I pray’d in cells whene’er the abbot gave leave ; 

And dress’d me in the robes of holy church ; 

And counted beads ; and knelt at every shrine ; 

And hoped one day, if I were worthy found 
To rise to be a monk. 

Godwin. And knew, the while, 

That o’er your head hung by the golden chain 
Of right and law this glorious English crown ? 

Edward. Aye; but no right nor law, the abbot said 
Could make it mine, for that all earthly crowns 
Lay on St. Peter’s holy shrine at Rome, 

To be thence lifted on the anointed brows 
Of such as Peter loved. 

Godwin {apart) A crowned monk 

Would poorly fill the Bretwald’s rocky throne 
Or hold King OfFa’s sword in priestly hand. 

Have you seen Mercian Leofric 1 

Edioard. Ho, my lord ; 

He flew his hawks last year on sackcloth day, 

And grudges ransom to the abbey at York. 

I shun him till he soothes our angry mother. 

Godwin {apart) Why, though he carried in effeminate hand 
The sceptre ; and on feeble brow the crown, 

He might be like the image, gilt and jewel I’d, 

That decks the vessel’s prow, looking in pride 
On its reflected form when waves are smooth, 

But following lightest touch of steersman’s hand 
When tempest breaks its mirror. 

Edward. If'ought else 

You’d have me do, say but the word I’ll do it; 

Name what you’d have me be, I’ll be it. 

Godwin {suddenly taking his resolution) King ! 

You shall be king ! 

Edioard. You mock me ! you have power: 

They love you ; you have fought and conquer’d ever, 

Oh taunt me not that I am weak ! 

Godwin. Dread Prince ! 

For when I named that word there fell on you 
An awe that bends the knee and shakes the heart; 

If round my name has gathered reverence, 

From thirty years of council and of war 
And ’neath the aweful purple of your State 
You’d wear around your heart the close knit mail 
Of Godwin’s love,—there may be snowy hands 
To twist that steel into a pierceless guard 
As easily as if the links were flowers. 

Edward. Oh sir,—if Godwin is my shield. 

Godwin. Not so ; 

I said the hands were snowy, to whose art 
Your breast should owe its safety. In my home 
Has waxed to womanhood—and, tho’ my tongue 




EARL GODWIN. 


99 


3SV. J. WHITE.] 


Steals from my heart the word—to loveliness 
A daughter,—you have mark’d her ? 

Edward. As a form 

Such as to holy saints in the old time 
Has been vouchsafed in trances, to foreshew 
The ecstasies of Heaven. To Leofric’s arms 
As to some haven girt with sheltering hills, 

The glorious bark with all its priceless freight 
Glides stately on; and I but mark’d its course 
With wonder at its beauty. 

Godwin. In her heart 

Dwells nobleness, and if at Leofric’s word 
She’s scanted of the blood that fills a king, 

She shall give king’s blood to a race of kings, 

And Godwin’s grandchild, claim his grandsire’s knee 

Edward. But Leofric, sir,- 

Godwin. I’ll deal with him myself. 

Give me your hand. You shall not see a frown 
On Edith’s brow when at her feet you place 
The majesty of England. Let us go, 

Leofric has gain’d his answer .—{gives 'place to Edward) —Humbly, sir. 

Exeunt. 


27.—THE BANISHMENT OF GODWIN. 

Dr. LArPENBERG. 

Edward had spent not only his youthful years, which are wont to give a fixed 
direction to the inclinations and the character, but also those of his maturer age, 
in which the indissoluble bonds of love and habit hold us even till death, in a 
country widely differing in climate, manners and language, from the land of his 
birth. The higher those intellectual enjoyments raised him, to which he could de¬ 
vote himself in the leisure of his powerful position, so much the mors excusable 
and powerful must be his conviction, that the participators in the sentiments which 
made him happy had a claim to his entire confidence, and to the support of the 
whole power committed to him by the Almighty. On leaving the soil of his edu¬ 
cation and his joys, the hearty greeting of the West Saxon peasant sounded strange 
to his Z, and spoke not to his heart. The ragged manners of the Anglo-Danish 
nobles from intercourse with whom he could no longer take refuge under the 
peaceful arches of a cloister, filled him with disgust, while the independent spirit 
of the Anglo-Saxon clergy, who in language and through ancient tradition bad ever 
been divided from the church of Rome, appeared to the orthodox Catholic little 
better than damnable heresy. Above all things, Edward was anxious to introduce 
Norman ecclesiastics into his kingdom, and through them to bring it into closer 
relationship with the papal chair. Soon after his accession, the see of London be¬ 
coming vacant by the death of Bishop iElfweard, he bestowed it on Robert the 
Frank, a monk of Jumieges, who is said to have shown particular kindness to Ed¬ 
ward in his days of need. A few years afterwards Robert succeeded Eadseye m 
the dignity of Archbishop of Canterbury and primate of all England Other French 
ecclesiastics were appointed chaplains to the king, which post in tins as in other 
countries may be regarded as the nursery of its future bishops. On one of them 
named William, at the instance of Robert and command of the pope, the see of 
London was bestowed, although the king had already conferred it unt er his writ 












100 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[DR LAPPENBERQ, 

and seal on Spearhafor (Sparrowhawk), and whose rich abbey of Abingdon had been 
given to Radulf, a relation of Edward. Another Norman, named Ulf, received the 
bishopric of Dorchester, and thus all the best vacant benefices fell into the hands of 
foreigners, a state of things to which the English church had till then been a 
stranger. 

****** 

The nation, nevertheless, would hardly have noticed these innovations, and would 
probably have endured the gradual installation of foreign prelates, had not the 
powerful temporal lords of the land found themselves aggrieved by the strangers. 
Of these Radulf, a nephew of the king, who had attended him on his return from 
exile to England, had been (probably after the banishment of Sweyn) invested with 
the earldom of Hereford. Many French knights had also attached themselves to 
Radulf, and resided in his castles, and some had their own castles, as Osbern, sur- 
named Pentecost, and Hugo. Mention is also made of the castle of another French 
knight, Robert, son of Wincare, situated to the north of London. The influence 
of Radulf was considered all powerful at the court of Edward : the weak courted 
his favour, and presumed not to withstand any of his pretensions ; and even the 
influential abbot of Ramsey, prompted by the conviction of his power, was induced 
to surrender to him certain lands, the possession of which he coveted. The pow¬ 
erful looked on him only with ill-concealed rancour. The refusal of Archbishop 
Robert to consecrate Spearhafor to the see of London had just excited the minds 
of the people anew against the Franks, and they looked with jealousy on the mar¬ 
riage, which shortly after took place, of Goda, the sister of Edward and mother of 
Radulf, with Eustace count of Boulogne, called from his large moustaches ‘ Eustace 
aux Grenons,’ when the unwelcome intelligence of a fresh arrival of Frankish visitors 
became public, and was received with mistrust and murmuring. The king’s brother- 
in-law, Eustace, appeared at court with a stately retinue. On his return, having 
stopped for refreshment at Canterbury, he proceeded on the way to Dover. When, 
within a mile or two of the town, it was observed that he and his men put on their 
hauberks, and no sooner had they arrived than they announced their intention to 
quarter themselves wherever it appeared agreeable to them. Against abuses in 
harbouring even the king and his followers, the townspeople could secure themselves; 
but to these Franks, who were regarded as a public nuisance, no one would act as 
host. One of them having wounded a householder, who resisted his attempt at 
entrance, was slain by the latter ; whereupon Eustace and his followers mounted 
their horses and made a general attack on the inhabitants, in which the householder 
above-mentioned and about twenty others were slain. Many of the French also 
fell by the hands of the townsmen, and many more were wounded. Eustace him¬ 
self with a few of his people escaping with difficulty, went immediately to the king 
at Gloucester, who on hearing their version of what had taken place, in his anger 
despatched Godwin to punish the townsmen for their misconduct. But why should 
the proud and mighty earl, out of mere compliance with the will of his weak-minded 
son-in-law, be the instrument to punish his brave burghers for a deed which had 
called forth praise from every part of England, and thus degrade himself for the 
sake of the odious Franks ? All the West Saxons shared in this hatred, for reckless 
insolence and rash violence had marked the career of every Frank in England. In 
the neighbourhood of one of their newly-built castles in Herefordshire, probably 
that of Pentecost, even the king’s vassals were exposed to their insults and violence. 
Godwin hereupon, with his sons, Sweyn and Harold, resolved to lay their own and 
the nation’s complaints before the king, who had appointed his witan to assemble 
at Gloucester about the second mass day of St. Mary, for the purpose of suppressing 
these dissensions. In the meantime Godwin and his sons had gathered around 






DR. LAPPENBERG.] 


THE BANISHMENT OF GODWIN. 


101 


them at Beverston (By feres-stan) and Langtree (Langatreo) a strong and well-ap¬ 
pointed body of followers, by whose aid they would probably have been enabled to 
extort compliance with their demands ; but Leofric, Seward, and Badulf had also 
assembled their forces, and it required great consideration and wise mediators to 
withhold the opposed parties from a conflict, which threatened the destruction of 
some of the most influential men of the country. Godwin and his sons were unable 
to justify their conduct to the king, whose ear had been already forestalled by the 
foreigners ; still less were they able to obtain their desire, that Eustace and his 
men,together with all the Frenchmen who were in the castle in Herefordshire, 
should be delivered into their hands. But threatening as the aspect of things was, 
Edward succeeded for the moment in re-establishing tranquillity ; hostages were 
mutually given, and the witan appointed to meet again at London on the autumnal 
equinox. On the arrival of Godwin and his sons with their thanes and a numerous 
army at Southwark, they found the king surrounded by a formidable host collected 
from the earldoms of Seward and Leofric and other parts. Disheartened by the 
aspect of affairs, the army of the earls rapidly decreased by desertion. By the 
witena-gemot pledges were demanded from all the thanes of Harold, Sweym was 
declared an outlaw, Godwin and Harold were summoned to justify their conduct 
before the assembly. They demanded a safe conduct from the king and hostages 
for their security, but on his demand placed all their thanes at his disposal. Edward 
now commanded them to appear with twelve of their followers before Ins eoixrieil, 
for the purpose of defending themselves, when they again demanded hostages, which, 
though no doubt necessary for their safety, could not be granted without offence to 
the royal dignity, and were consequently refused, a safe conduct only for five days 
being allowed them, within which time they were ordered to leave the country. 
Godwin hereupon with his wife Gytha, Tostig and his wife Judith a daughter or 
niece of Baldwin, Count of Flanders, Sweyn and Gyrth, withdrew by night to ns 
estates of Bosham and Thorney, in his native Sussex, whence m a vessel hastily 
laden with as much gold, silver, and other treasure as it would contain they em¬ 
barked for Flanders. Harold and his younger brother fled to Bristol, where they 
found a ship that had been fitted out by Sweyn for his own use on board of which 
they sailed towards Ireland. The king despatched Bishop Eldred with a force in 
pursuit of them, who, however, could not or would not overtake them and they 
reached their destination in safety, where, under the protection of the king, icy 
passed the winter. But Edward’s Frankish counsellors appear not to have been 
satisfied with having overthrown their most powerful foes, and deprived h^m o is 
favourites ; they also prevailed on him to separate from his wife Edith, who, bereft 
of all her lands and treasures, was sent, attended by one female servant, to the 
abbey of Wherwell, and there committed to the custody of the abbess, a sister of 

Ed The d banishment of Godwin and his sons was connected with too many mteH«te 
to be of long duration, and they neglected no means of securing for themselves a 
triumphant Restoration. A short time before the occurrence of the above-mentioned 
events a fleet of Irish pirates, consisting of thirty-six ships, entered the mouth of 
Te Severn and being aided by Griffith, king of South Wales they crossed the Wye 
and ravaged the neighbouring country. Eldred bishop of Worcester, W1 ^ a sma 
body of forces, gathered from the shores of Gloucester ^ and Hereford, went out 
against them • but some Welch among his men, in violation of the oath of fidelity 
Xh they hid taken, sent private intelligence to Griffith, make an 

immediate attack on the English. In pursuance of mty 

with the Irish rushing on the little army of Eldred at the dawn ot day, ma y 

of them, and put the rest with the bishop to bight. 





102 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[DR. LAPPENBERlG. 


It was probably in concert with Godwin and his sons that Griffith again invaded 
the English territory, and laid waste the greater part of Herefordshire. In the 
neighbourhood of Leominster he was encountered by the people of the country, 
aided by the Normans from the castle, whom, after a considerable loss on both 
sides he overcame, and returned with much booty to his own country, Harold and 
Leofwine now sailed with a considerable fleet from Ireland and entered the mouth 
of the Severn, where they landed, and plundered many towns and villages in the 
counties of Somerset and Devon. In an engagement between their forces and the 
people of the country, the latter were defeated with great loss, including above 
thirty thanes. Harold then sailed round the Land’s End into the British Channel. 
Edward and his witan now deemed it time to adopt measures for the security of 
his people, and caused a fleet of forty ships to be fitted out under the command of 
the earls Odda and Badulf, which was, during many weeks, stationed at Sandwich, 
for the purpose of watching the movements of Godwin. A day or two before 
midsummer Godwin proceeded from Bruges to his ships, which were lying in the 
Yser, below Nienport, whence he sailed to the coast of England, and arrived at the 
point a little to the south of Romney. Here he found all the people devoted to 
him : the sailors (butsecarlas) of Hastings, the men of Sussex, Surrey and Essex, 
declared themselves ready to live or die for him. The royal fleet had in the mean¬ 
while sailed in quest of him, but, after a fruitless cruise, returned to its station at 
Sandwich, and thence sailed to London. It was now resolved to place the royal 
fleet under abler commanders, but, during the delay which attended the execution 
of this resolution, the seamen returned to their homes. The state of embarrassment 
Into which his opponents were naturally plunged by these untoward occurrences 
could not be unknown to Godwin, whose next visit was to the fertile Isle of Wight, 
where having supplied his fleet with provisions, he sailed to Portland. Here he 
was joined by his sons Harold and Leofwine. With their united fleets they now 
proceeded along the coast eastwards, limiting their demands, wherever they met 
with no hostile opposition, to the supplies necessary for their forces, enticing the 
people, both landsmen and sailors, into their service, and seizing on all the ships 
which lay at Romney, Hythe, and Folkestone. At Dover also and Sandwich they 
seized on the ships and received hostages and supplies, and thence directed their 
course up the Thames towards London, till they arrived at Southwark, where, while 
waiting for the flood-tide, Godwin treated with the townspeople, who were all 
favourably disposed towards him. Then passing through the bridge, he arrayed 
both his land and sea forces along the southern bank of the river, inclining his ships 
towards the opposite shore, as if he would hem in the royal fleet, which consisted 
of fifty ships under Edward and his earls, who had, moreover, a considerable land 
army, but all of whom were ill-disposed to fight against their own countrymen, for 
the sake of the foreign favourites. Godwin and his party now demanded the re¬ 
storation of their possessions and honours, which Edward at first sternly refused; 
but at length, finding that his people were excited against him, and through the 
interposition of Stigand, Bishop of Winchester, with other prudent counsellors, it 
was settled that hostages should be mutually given. On receiving this intelligence 
the Frenchmen immediately mounted their horses and fled, some to Osbern Pente¬ 
cost’s castle, others northwards to Earl Robert’s ; while Robert the archbishop, 
William Bishop of London, and Ulf Bishop of Dorchester, with many followers, 
escaped out at the east gate, and injuring many in their flight proceeded to the 
coast, where at Eadulfs-ness, they threw themselves into a crazy boat and reached 
the shores of Normandy, leaving behind the archiepiscopal pall and other valuables. 
Bishop William was, on account of his excellent character, afterwards recalled and 
reinstated in his diocese. Pentecost and Hugo, having surrendered their castles., 


. 






THE BANISHMENT OF GODWIN. 


103 


DR. LAPPENBERG.] 

received prermission from Leofric to pass through his earldom on their way to Scot¬ 
land where they entered into the service of Macbeth. But archbishop Robert 
proved a dangerous foe to the Anglo-Saxons : he hurried to Rome for the purpose 
of preferring bitter complaints, on account of his deposition, but more particularly 
against his successor Stigand ; and an appearance of right on his side was not with¬ 
out a prejudicial influence on subsequent transactions, though it operated most un- 
unfavourably for the Anglo-Saxons, in having cherished, if it did not inspire, the 
thought in William of Normandy of securing the succession to the throne of Eng¬ 
land 0 At a great witena-gemot, holden without the gate of London, Godwin, as a 
matter of course, fully succeeded in establishing his own and his sons’ innocence 
of all that had been charged against them, whereupon they were received again 
into the kind’s full friendship, and restored to their possessions and honours. Queen 
Edith was also reinstated in her former station. Of Sweyn we are informed that 
he died on his return from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, which he had undertaken 
as an atonement for the murder of his cousin Biorn. The Frenchmen, including 
Archbishop Robert, both ecclesiastics and laymen, because they had introduced 
odious measures and widened the breach between the king and the family of 
Godwin were outlawed, with a few exceptions in favour of some relations of the 
Pino- Thus was a complete reconciliation effected, and the universal joy of the 
people must have convinced the king that his weak partiality for Norman courtiers, 
and Norman customs and manners might inflict irreparable injury on his kingdom. 
* * * * * * 

It may be regarded as a great misfortune for England that soon after the resto¬ 
ration of tranquillity Godwin died. He had laboured long and zealously and felt 
+ w nf his dav was at hand. His indisposition had been remarked m the 



attempt of the Norman pait 
deadliest enemy. Trustwcrth; 
character are wholly wanting ; 


the authors who wrote a few years after his death 
ip Normans, or inoculated with their views. So 


• n 4-u^ n^+orp<s+. nf the Normans, or 






104 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[DR. LAPPENBERG. 


ment, though it was the iron arms of the warrier which, under Canute, first carved 
out the fame of the son of the “child of Sussex.” His greatest glory is, that his 
interests were in general closely combined with those of his countrymen. 


28 —HAROLD IN NORMANDY. 


Rev. J. White. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Earl Godwin had delivered his son and grandson to Edward the Confessor as 
hostages for his fidelity. These, the king had sent over for safe keeping to his 
kinsman William of Normandy. Harold was anxious, after the death of his 
father, to release his brother and nephew from the custody—almost amounting to 
imprisonment—in which they were detained, and for this purpose determined to 
visit William, with whom he had formed a friendship during his residence in 
England a short time before. Accompanied by a gay and numerous retinue, he 
took his way to the ships, and was driven by stress of weather on the coast of 
France not far from the present Boulogne. There, with the inhospitable cruelty 
and meanness of the feudal character, he was seized as prisoner by the Earl of 
Ponthieu and set to ransom. 

William however heard of the misfortune of his intending visitor, and by 
threats and promises procured his release. On the arrival of Harold at Rouen no 
effort was spared to win his assistance to the designs upon England, which William 
already entertained. Among other devices to gain this end William offered him 
the hand of his daughter Adela, and prevailed on him to promise that in the event 
of Edward’s death he would offer no opposition to his accession to the English 
throne. Harold held out his hand to make this promise, but care had been taken 
by the Norman priests to place, upon a table in the apartment, a basket filled with 
the bones and other relics of saints and martyrs. Harold, who probably had 
merely intended his acquiescence as a means of delivering himself from danger, 
was struck with horror when he perceived the sanctions under which his oath was 
given. It was the remembrance of this oath that weakened his resistance when 
the conqueror made his descent ; for the superstition of the time led even the 
supporters of Harold’s cause to consider him under the curse denounced on 
perjury. 


Duke of Normandy 


William . . 

Harold 

Lanfranc . . A monk 
Envoys from the Earl of Ponthieu 
Priests, choristers, &c. 

Adela . . . Daughter of William. 




An apartment in the Palace at Rouen. 

William — Lanfranc. 

William. I tell you, if I chained 

The wolf they’ve roused within my heart, ’twould tear me. 

I cannot wear a mask,—I am no Priest. 

Lanfranc. You are a Sovran, Sir, and may be King. 
William. The old lesson still,—and still the selfsame bribe 
Have I not learn’d the priestly art of fawning, 

Concealing, courting? But how long will last 
This close-mewed perching on a churchman’s wrist ? 

Lanfranc. Till the game springs. 

William. How often must it spring 










HAROLD IN NORMANDY. 


105 


REY. J. WHITE.] 


And ’scape me 1 England with slow, aimless flight, 

Lazily flapping on unwieldy wings, 

Tempted the stroke,—when soaring o’er its head 
Rose this proud Harold, circling round the prey 
To guard it from our swoop. 

Lanfranc (smiles). He hears the lure,— 

He will be here anon. 

William. What use of words 

To one that to his lip can call a smile 
Brimful of meaning, like the good Lanfranc ? 

You’re over hasty, priest.—Weave in your cells 
Nets, thick in the mesh, to catch the vulgar shoal ; 

Dig pitfalls for the careless ; mix strange draughts 
To sooth the watchful;—Leave to a prince and knight 
To win the noble. Harold is my guest, 

And rich and royal shall his welcome be. 

Lanfranc. Count Guido of Ponthieu gives fitter thanks 
To Heaven that sent him, than to scorn its bounty. 

William. A base, unknightly churl ! 

Lanfranc. He guards his prize 

As ’twere some stranded monster cast on his shore, 

Rich in thick oils and aromatic balms. 

William. He shall yield up the prize,—or, by my sword. 
.—Pit oath—fit instrument,—he’ll mourn the hour 
That sent Earl Harold to his donjon tower. 

Lanfranc. You’ll fight to rescue Harold ! 

William Fight ? Aye, die 

Rather than leave him for an hour in durance !— 

Half our estates, nay, all this Norman land, 

Our crown—our name we’d rather cast away 
Than leave our guest unhonoured.—Have they come, 

Those Envoys from Ponthieu ? 

Lanfranc opens a door. Enter Envoys. 

Lanfranc. They have—They’re here. 

William. No greeting, till I hear what you reply ! 
Harold of England, driven by Neptune’s rage 
Into your harbour, was unknightly seized 
Tho’ on his front he bore the sacred name 
Of William’s friend. Have you set free that earl 1 

Envoy. No, Sir. Our master has some ancient feud 
To settle with his visitor. 

William. Not so— 

He is no visitor,—but foully stayed 
In his approach to us. Whene’er he left 
The English shores, his foot, in knightly thought 
Trod on our soil,—his hand was grasped in ours ; 

He was ourself. Go, tell the man you serve, 

The jailor of a noble—not his host— 

His feud is now with me.—Or if he is won 
With wealth, with counties, let him name the price, 
Harold is worth them all. 

Envoy. 


Beside the Aune 





HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY 


fREV. J. 


Lies a rich strath, once in the Ponthieu bounds ; 

Our master claims it for his crown again. 

William. Tis his. What more ? 

Envoy. Certain arrears of rents 

Kept back by Robert, your great ancestor— 

William. Take them,—and multiply by ten what else 
Your master claims ,—but give me Harold here 
In safety—honour—as befits the man 
Who is my friend. 

Lanfranc. Pause, I beseech, Sir— 

William. No—I’ll not pause. I tell you, Policy 
Leaps sometimes safest when it plants its foot 
In what fools think profusion. 

Lanfranc. If you look 

Your Grace will see the smile that moved your scorn 
Sitting again upon these lips.—My Lords, 

His grace will give you answer more at large 

When half the hour glass sands have sunk to the end. 

Exeunt Envoys. 

William. ' Why, priest—knave—or whatever name you own— 

Lanfranc. Both—either. By this humble garb I’m warned 
To endure contempt. 

William. And yet your eye-balls glow 

With pride might fit a warhorse, when the spears 
Are levelled and the cry is in his ear. 

Lanfranc. Give them no counties—no arrears of rent— 

I sent a message by a barefoot brother 
To Guido of Ponthieu to claim his prisoner. 

William. Well ? 

Lanfranc. There’s a bolt that makes no noise, yet slays 
Held by a feeble hand, of deadlier weight 
Than mounted myriads ;—’tis the curse of Heaven. 

’Neath that black shadow pride dissolves in rain. 

Ponthieu is on his knee.—Harold is here. Exit. 

William. That priestly voice—that smile—that tranquil eye. 
They quell me like a moonlight among graves ; 

Like the great gulfs of the tremendous sea 

Which thrill not to the tempest blow that shakes 

The upper waves to fury, and sends down 

Ships in their bravery,—knight and burnished arms,— 

A nation’s strength ;—yet in their sunless depths 
Move not, but heavy cling around the globe 
And chain it to their will.—A dangerous friend 
This Rome, which grows our master in the end. 

Enter Harold. 

Welcome at last ! the heartier for delay. 

Harold. Double all thanks I ever paid before, 

And take them from my heart ! 

William. What ! you ’ve not pined 

In Guido’s fetters ? There’s a freeborn air 
About those English limbs, as if no chain 
Could bind them. 




REV. J. WHITE.] HAROLD IN NORMANDY. 107 

Harold. And it shall not ! Chains from him 

A skipping foreigner ! If he had dared 
To talk of chains,—you see these sinewy five, 

They would have clutched him, till his Frenchman’s tongue 
Had howled for mercy— aie mesericorde ! 

William (smiles). It trips not as your tongue were native soil, 

But halts and boggles like a horse half swamp’d 
In a Dutch marsh. Speak Saxon, noble Harold ! 

Harold. I do, and thank you, William ; tho’, by ’r lady, 

My thanks are elsewhere due. Two shaveling priests 
Broke prison bars, that might have stood unmoved 
By Normandy in arms ;—a word or two 
They said in Guido’s ear ; when, quick ! begone ! 

I found myself with reverence helped to horse, 

Girt with a sword, encased in silken robe, 

A purse at girdle, and the two bald friars 
Crossing them, as I swore some English oaths 
At Guido’s baseness,—looking if I might spy 
A cudgel to requite his highness’ care, 

An d lacking that, doubling my fist in rage 
To smite the villain’s ear. But ever they prayed 
And claimed me as a waif and stray of the church ; 

A sort of foundling taken to by the Pope,—- 
And so I bore me like a Christian lamb 
An d slew not Guido,—till it please the Saints 
To bring me to close reach of him again. 

William. They were my holy chaplain’s messengers. 

Harold. I like not chaplains with more power than mine, 

I’d strip them of it all. 

William. He is in vows 

Of poverty, and meekness, and submission. 

Harold. Hang him,—I like not vows, that whet us more 
To gain what we abjure. T has often chanced, 

When labouring with sharp aches from too much wine, 

I’ve vowed to abstain ; no sooner slips the vow 
Out of my lips, than—as its words were fire, 

And made a sandy desert of my throat, 

Parch’d with hot winds— nothing can quell my thirst 
But five times more than if I had made no vow. 

I know it well. 

William. I trust, then, cousin, no vow 
Of love to me shall make you turn to hate. 

Harold. Tush ! ’t is of priests I spoke ; for you tins heart 

Beats as of old with love and reverence. 

William. And mine to you. Ah ! they were happy times 
When we went hawking over all that plain 
Its name escapes me—where the Druid stones 
Weigh in such mass upon the flight of Time 
That he seems moveless since a thousand years. 

Harold. Salisbury,—’t is a ground to try a hawk. 

’T might task an eagle’s wing. 

William. And you remember 













108 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[rev. j. wHim 


How cliafed the gallant steed that bore my child, 

My little Adela ; and how she pressed 
Ever for safety to your side ? Your voice 
Soothing both horse and rider ? 

Harold. I remember. 

William. She hath oft spoke your name since the report 
Of Guido’s wrong arrived. You’d scarcely think 
How fiercely she could clasp her little hand, 

And beat the pavement with her passionate foot, 

And fling hot threatenings from her fiery lips, 

On the false traitor who retained her friend. 

Harold. Heaven send its blessings on her childish head ! 
I see her fairy form before me still, 

A lighter never trampled into rings 
The green tops o’ the grass. 

William. You wrong her, Harold, 

Two years have worn the fairy circles out 
And put full woman’s weight upon her limbs 
And yet not changed her heart. E’en now she waits 
Our coming in her bower.—Come, see her, Harold. 








\Exeunt. 


Scene II. 


A fortnight has passed amid the amusements of the Court of Rouen. Adela has been 
compelled by her Father and Lanfranc to extort a promise from her lover Harold , wider 
threat , if she refuses , of being sent to a Convent. 


No, 


Lanfranc—A dela. 

Lanfranc. ’Tis needful, lady—that suffices. 

Adela. 

I will not play the traitress to brave Harold, 

And wile from the fond heart what the strong will 
Would guard for ever. If he loves my father,— 

Nay, if he loves—I mean not wdiat I say— 

But if he loves his friend, and in the truth 
Of his full kindness promises to aid 
A stranger to ascend his native throne, 

Think it but words of courtesy,—the payment 
Of present gratitude,—ne’er to be prest 
Into the actual deed. 

Lanfranc. Leave the result 

To me—to Heaven—and to our Lord the Pope. 

Adela. What makes the Pope with Harold ? Is his voice 
So powerful it can reach the walls of Rome ? 

Lanfranc. Rome’s walls receive the lightest whispered word 
That e’er left dying lips in farthest Isle, 

Or loneliest desert. Harold’s voice she hears; 

And your’s dear lady, as vfith eloquent lip, 

You ask him to make promise of his aid 
To our great duke. 

Adda. And leave the path himself 

That leads to greatness ? 






REV. J. WHITE.] 


HAROLD IN NORMANDY. 


109 


Lanfranc. But to happiness 

The path is left more free. The first of subjects 
Haply may lead a life of sweeter joy 
With her he loves beside him, than if raised 
To a cold barren throne,—and her he loves 
Doomed to a Convent's holy solitude. 

Adda. Is that her doom ] 

Lanfranc. Who will not ser\ e the church 

In Prince’s court, shall serve her in Nun’s cell. 

Adda. I see there is no mercy in that eye. 

Take me to Harold. 

Lanfranc , (calls). Come ! 

Enter Harold. 

Harold. Eemember lady ! 


Harold. That man moves ever like a silent cloud, 

And casts a shivering shadow ;—but he’s gone, 

And there is sunshine where sweet Adela smiles. 

Adda. How know you that she smiles] 

Harold. I feel it, lady, 

Even when I look not on your face, the glow 
Jteaches my heart;—as in June’s balmy days 
We know ’tis summer, tho’ the flowers are hidden, 

And live but by their fragrance. 

Adda. Ah! kind Harold, 

How sweet are words of praise from honest lips ! 

Harold. I meant them not for praise. Praise is but foam 
From shallow streams,—the deeps hold still the pearl. 

Adela. And yet my father doubts what truth there lies 

Within that noble heart ! 

Harold. Doubt it who likes, 

So Adela doubts it not. You doubt not, lady, 

How you have filled this niche, like a fail saint 
That never leaves the shrine.—We may be rude, 

We of hot Saxon blood,—and not so quick 
In valorous speech and trim built compliment, 

As scholarly Normans,—but when once we have said 
We love—that short, stout manly word—we love, 

Why, till our death we do it. 

Adda. ' Other thoughts 

Come in to choke it. 

Harold. Which be they ] 

Adda. Ambition’s. 

Harold. Not so ; we can aspire and love unchanged, 

As eagles seek the sun, yet gaze on earth. 

Adela. Soar not too high, dear Harold, or poor earth 
Grows to a speck—a point—then disappears. 

Say you’ll forswear all greatness—but your own 
Say when this Edward gains his heavenly crown, 

You’11 scorn the earthly bauble he has worn. . , , 

Harold. Who calls the circlet woven by England s might 

By name so vile ] 


Exit Lanfranc. 





no 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[REV. J. WHITE, 


Adda. My father— 
Harold. 


Let him scorn it 
Tis to me a crown, 


Since ’tis a bauble. 


The sacredest of the earth. 


Adda. 


Farewell, then, Harold! 


It may be death to say such words as these. 

Harold. Death— 

Adela. Aye, to both. 

Harold. What words of mine have power 


To bring such ill to Adela ? 
Adela. 


Her life 


Grows as your’s grows—and fades with yours. 



Harold (aside). 


My life 


Hangs then on William’s liking?—As I thought! 
’Twas safer in the dungeons of Panthieu. 


Adela. You hesitate—Oh ! Harold, give your hand 
That you will aid my father in his aims. 

Will you not, Harold ?—he is Adela’s father—• 

Your’s too—dear Harold;—say you’ll give your aid! 

Harold. Why, what are oaths when given in guise like this, 

With a sharp sword within an inch of my throat ? 

Adela. No, not a sword,—a loving—trusting heart. 

Harold. Ah ! eyes like these shall never plead in vain, 

A dela. Swear, then— 

Harold. What boots it swearing ? 

Adela,. Will you swear ? 

Harold. Aye—that I love you. 

Adela. That you slay me rather ! 

Harold. That were false oathing. 

Adela. Lift your hand, dear Harold— 

Harold (lifts his hand) There— 

Adela. You will swear to aid my father’s claims 
To England’s throne,—say but the words “ I swear.” 

Harold. And it will please you, gentle Adela,— 

And smooth the furrowed brow of that grave priest, 

And win Duke William ? 

Adela. :. All—all! 

Harold . Then I swear.— 

Folding doors open , and display an Altar covered as if for Mass. Choristers _ 


Priests , <&c. Lanfranc in front. 


Lanfranc. Heaven and the saints have heard you! If you change 
Or break the compact firmness of this vow, 

Earth, heaven and hell shall join to blast your name. 

A curse shall weigh upon your sword,—your arm 
Shrivel beneath it, in the day of battle. 

Angels shall turn their eyes from off your face, 

And love desert you like a tainted thins- 
Such fate be his that breaks a sacred vow, 

Vowed where all Holy Martyrs bend the ear.— 

—Earl Harold ! such the vow they witness here. 


\ 





C. MAC FARLANE.] 


THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS, 


111 


29.—THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. C. Mac Farlane. 

William was hunting in the forest near Rouen, with a great company of knights, 
esquires, and noble dames and damsels, when a messenger just arrived from Eng¬ 
land accosted him, and announced the death of the Confessor and the coronation 
of Harold. The bow dropped out of the hand of the Norman duke, and he stood 
for a space like one petrified. He then fastened and undid his mantle, speaking no 
word, and looking so troubled and fierce that none durst speak to him. Then 
throwing himself into a skiff, he crossed the Seine, and went into his palace, still 
silent. Striding into the great hall, he threw himself into a chair, and, wrapping 
his head in his mantle, he bent his body towards the earth. The courtiers gazed 
upon him with amazement and alarm, and asked one another in whispers what this 
could mean. “ Sirs,” said William de Breteuil, the seneschal, “ ye will soon know 
the cause of our lord’s anxiety.” At a few words spoken by the seneschal, the 
duke recovered from his reverie, removed the mantle from his face, and listened to 
one of his barons, who advised him to remind Harold of the oaths he had sworn, 
and demand from him the immediate surrender of the Confessor’s crown. 

Harold replied, that the crown of England was not his to give away. 

When William the Norman prepared to invade England (which he did forthwith), 
he had reached the mature age of forty-two. He called to his aid not only his 
subjects of Normandy, but men from Maine and Anjou, from Poictou and Brittany, 
from the country of the French king and from Flanders, from Aquitaine and from 
Burgundy, from Piedmont beyond the Alps, and from the German countries be¬ 
yond the river Rhine. The idle adventurers of one-half of Europe flocked to his 
standard. Some of these men demanded regular pay in money, others nothing but 
a passage across the Channel, and all the booty they might make; some of the 
chiefs demanded territory in England, while others simply bargained to have a rich 
English wife allotted to them. William sold beforehand a bishopric in England for 
a ship and twenty men-at-arms. The pope gave the Conqueror a holy licence to 
invade England, upon condition that the Norman duke should hold his conquest as 
a fief of the church ; and, together with a bull, a consecrated banner, and a ring of 
great price, containing one of the hairs of St. Peter, were sent from Rome into Nor¬ 
mandy. So formidable an armament had not been collected in Western Europe 
for many centuries. The total number of vessels amounted to about three thou¬ 
sand, of which six hundred or seven hundred were of a superior order. When the 
expedition set sail, William led the van in a vessel which had been presented to 
him for the occasion by his wife Matilda: the vanes of the ship were gilded, the 
sails were of different bright colours, the three lions—the arms of Normandy—were 
painted in divers places, and the sculptured figure-head was a child with a bent 
bow, the arrow seeming ready to fly against the hostile and perjured land of Eng¬ 
land. The consecrated banner sent from Rome floated at the main-top-mast. This 
ship sailed faster than all the rest, and in the course of the night it left the whole 
fleet far astern. Early in the morning the duke ordered a sailor to the mast-head 
to see if the other ships were coming up. “ I can see nothing but the sea and 
sky,” said the mariner ; and thereupon they lay-to. To keep the crew and the 
soldiers on board in good heart, William ordered them a sumptuous breakfast, with 
warm wine strongly spiced. After this refection the mariner was again sent aloft, 
and this time he said he could make out four vessels in the distance; but mount¬ 
ing a third time, he shouted out with a merry voice, “ Now I see a forest of masts 
and sails.” Within a few hours the re-united Norman fleet came to anchor on the 
Sussex coast. At that particular point the coast was flat, and the country behind 
it marshy and unpicturesque ; but a little to the left stood the noble Roman walls 







HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


J 12 


[C. MAC FARLANE. 


and other ancient remains of Pevensey, and a little to the right the bold cliffs and 
sloping downs of Hastings. 

As day dawned, Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, a half-brother of Duke William, cele¬ 
brated mass in the field on a portable altar, and gave his benediction to the troops, 
being armed the while in a coat of mail, which he wore under his episcopal rochet; 
and when the mass and the blessing were over, he mounted a very large and white 
war-horse, took a lance in his hand, and marshalled his brigade of cavalry. William 
rode a fine Spanish horse, which a rich Norman had brought him on his return 
from a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. lago in Galicia: he wore suspended round 
his neck some of those relics upon which Harold had sworn ; the pride of the Nor¬ 
man nobility were formed in column behind him; and the standard blessed by the 
pope was carried at his side by one Tonstain, surnamed “ the White,” who ac¬ 
cepted the honcv able but dangerous office after two Norman barons had declined 
it. Before the onslaught, the duke, from the back of his Spanish steed, harangued 
the collected host, telling them that a great booty was before them, and that if 
they could conquer this land, they should have it all in lots among them. Then 
Taillefer, a gigantic Norman, who was minstrel, juggler, and champion, spurred his 
horse to the front of the van, and sung with a loud voice the popular ballads which 
immortalized the valour of Charlemagne and Roland, and all that flower of chivalry 
that fought in the great fight of Roncesvalles ; and as Taillefer sang he performed 
feats with his sword, throwing it into the air with great force with one hand, and 
catching it as it fell with the other. The Normans repeated the burden of his 
song, or cried “ Dieu aide ! Dieu aide ! ” This accomplished champion craved per¬ 
mission to strike the first blow : he ran one Saxon through the body, and threw a 
second to the ground ; but in attacking a third, he was himself mortally wounded; 
and having sung his last war-song, he crossed himself and was at peace for ever. 
The Saxon host remained in their position on the ridge of a hill, fortified by 
trenches and palisades : they were marshalled after the fashion of the Danes, shield 
against shield, presenting an impenetrable front to the enemy’s lances ; and in re¬ 
sponse to the “Dieu aide!” or “God is our help!” of the Normans, they shouted, 

“ Christ’s rood ! The holy rood! ” According to ancient privilege, the brave men 
of Kent stood in the first line, and the burgesses of London formed the body-guard 
of the sovereign, and were drawn up close round the royal standard. At the foot 
of this standard stood bold Harold, with his two stout brothers, Gurth and Leofwin 
and a few of the noblest and bravest thanes of all England. 

Many were the checks and reverses, and fearful the losses sustained by the in¬ 
vaders. At one term the pride of the Norman cavalry were driven pell-mell into a 
deep trench which had been artfully covered over and concealed by the Saxons 
and in which men and horses perished in great numbers : and at this disastrous 
moment the cry was spread that the duke himself was slain, and a panic and head¬ 
long flight was begun. William, whose horse had been killed, but who was him¬ 
self unhurt, mounted a fresh steed, got before the fugitives, and endeavoured to 
stop them, first by threatening them and striking them with his lance, and then by 
uncovering his face and head, and crying, “ Here I am ! Look at me ! I am still 
alive, and will conquer by God’s help! ” At last, near upon six o’clock of the 
evening, when the battle had lasted nine hours, and when the sun was setting in 
the sea beyond the headland of Beacliy Head, victory alighted upon the proud crest 
of the Norman. Harold was shot through the brain by a random arrow, and the 
foe made a dash and hemmed in the spot, exerting themselves in the most despe¬ 
rate manner to seize the royal Saxon banner. Robert Fitz Ernest had almost 
grasped it when a Saxon battle-axe laid him low for ever. Twenty Norman knio-hts 
of name then undertook the task, and this attempt succeeded after ten of their 






THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 


113 


c. MAC FARLANE.J 

number bad perished. The Saxon standard was then lowered, and the consecrated 
banner sent by the pope from Rome was raised in its stead, in sign of victory. 
Gurth and Leofwin, the brothers of Harold, died before the standard was taken, and 
all the hill-side where it stood was covered thick with the Saxon dead and dying. 
William himself had lost not one but three horses that were killed under him, and 
at one moment he was well nigh laid prostrate by a blow struck upon his steel cap 
by a Saxon knight. 

Scenes of the most striking kind followed closely upon the battle of Hastings. 
Before leaving Normandy, William had caused a muster-roll to be drawn up, speci¬ 
fying the names and quality of all his followers. The morning after the battle all 
those who survived it were drawn up in line, and this muster-roll was called over. 
To a fourth of the names no answer was returned ; and among the missing, who 
were all dead, were many of the noblest lords and bravest knights of Normandy. 
Those who had been more fortunate gathered round the Duke, and, with eager looks 
and their sw r ords and lance-lieads yet wet with the blood of the conqueied, de¬ 
manded possession of the houses and lands of the Saxons. A new roll was pre¬ 
pared, on which were inscribed the names of all the noblemen and gentlemen who 
had survived ; and this roll w T as deposited in Battle Abbey, which, in the accom¬ 
plishment of a solemn vow, the Conqueror afterwards erected on the hill which 
Harold had occupied and so gallantly defended. The high altar of this abbey church 
stood on the very spot where the standard of the last of oui Saxon kings had 
floated. 

The aged mother of Harold, who lost three brave sons in the battle of Hastings, 
offered its weight in gold for the dead body of the king. Two monks, who were 
allowed by William to search for the body, were unable to distinguish it among the 
heaps of the slain, who had all been stripped naked by the Norman soldiery ; but 
the monks sent for a beautiful young Saxon lady to whom Harold had been fondly 
attached, and the fair Editha—“the swan-necked” as she is called by some of the 
chroniclers—came to that scene of slaughter and horror, and went groping and 
peering with w r eeping and half-blinded eyes among the dead, nor ceased her seaich 
until she found the disfigured body of King Harold. The body was conveyed to 
Waltham Abbey, on the banks of the river Lea, a house and a country which he 
had much loved while alive. He was there honourably interred, the Waltham monks 
putting over his tomb the simple inscription “ Here lies the unfortunate Harold ! ” 


30 .— BAYEUX TAPESTRY. C. Knight. 

The most extraordinary memorial of that eventful period of transition, which saw 
the descendants of the old Saxon conquerors of Britain swept from their power and 
their possessions, and their places usurped by a swarm of adventurers from the 
shores of Normandy, is a work not of stone or brass, not of writing and illumina¬ 
tion more durable than stone or brass, but a roll of needlework, which records the 
principal events which preceded and accompanied the Conquest, with a minuteness 
and fidelity which leave no reasonable doubt of its being a contemporary pioduc- 
tion. This is the celebrated Bayeux Tapestry. When Napoleon contemplated the 
invasion of England in 1803, he caused this invaluable record to be removed from 
Bayeux. and to be exhibited in the National Museum at Paris; and then the French 
players, always ready to seize upon a popular subject, produced a little drama in 
which they exhibited Matilda, the wife of the Conqueror, sitting in her lonely 
tower in Normandy, whilst her husband was fighting in England, and thus lecoul- 
ing. with the aid of her needlewomen, the mighty acts of her hero, portrayed to the 
life in this immortal worsted-work. But there is a more affecting theoi} of die 

I 







114 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


1_C. KNIGHT. 


accomplishment of this labour than that told in the French vaudeville. The women 
of England were celebrated all over Europe for their work in embroidery; and 
when the husband of Matilda ascended the throne of England, it is reasonably con¬ 
cluded that the skilful daughters of the land were retained around the person of the 
queen. They were thus employed to celebrate their own calamities. But there was 
nothing in this tapestry which told a tale of degradation. There is no delineation 
of cowardly flight or abject submission. The colours of the threads might have been 
dimmed with the tears of the workers, but they would not have had the deep pain 
of believing that their homes were not gallantly defended. In this great invasion 
and conquest, as an old historian has poetically said, “ was tried by the great assise 
of God’s judgment in battle the right of power between the English and Norman 
nations—a battle the most memorable of all others; and, howsoever miserably lost, 
yet most nobly fought on the part of England.” There was nothing in this tapestry 
to encourage another invasion eight centuries later. In one of the compartments 
of the tapestry were represented men gazing at a meteor or comet, which was held 
to presage the defeat of the Saxon Harold. A meteor had appeared in the south 
of France, at the time of the exhibition of the tapestry in 1803; and the mounte¬ 
bank Napoleon proclaimed that the circumstances were identical. The tapestry, 
having served its purpose of popular delusion, was returned to its original obscurity. 
It had previously been known to Lancelot and Montfaucon, French antiquaries ; 
and Dr. Ducarel, in 176 7, printed a description of it, in which he stated that it was 
annually hung up round the nave of the church of Bayeux on St. John’s day. 
During the last thirty years this ancient work has been fully described, and its 
date and origin discussed. Above all, the Society of Antiquaries rendered a most 
valuable service to the world, by causing a complete set of coloured fac-simile 
drawings to be made by an accomplished artist, Mr. Charles Stothard, which have 
since been published in the ‘ Yetusta Monumental 

In the Hotel of the Prefecture at Bayeux is now preserved this famous tapestry. 
In 1814, so little was known of it in the town where it had remained for so many 
centuries, that Mr. Hudson Gurney was coming away without discovering it, not 
being aware that it went by the name of the “ Toile de St. Jean.” It was coiled 
round a windlass ; and drawing it out at leisure over a table, he found that it con¬ 
sisted of “ a very long piece of brownish linen cloth, worked with woollen thread 
of different colours, which are as bright and distinct, and the letters of the super¬ 
scriptions as legible, as if of yesterday.” The roll is twenty inches broad, and two 
hundred and fourteen feet in length. Mr. Gurney has some sensible remarks upon 
the internal evidence of the work being contemporaneous wnth the Conquest. In 
the buildings portrayed there is not the the trace of a pointed arch ; there is not 
an indication of armorial bearings, properly so called, which would certainly have 
been given to the fighting knights had the needlework belonged to a later age ; and 
the Norman banner is invariably Argent , a cross Or in a border Azure, and not the 
latter invention of the Norman leopards. Mr. Gurney adds, “ It maybe remarked, 
that the whole is worked with a strong outline ; that the clearness and relief are 
given to it by the variety of the colours.” The likenesses of individuals are pre¬ 
served throughout. The Saxons invariably wear moustaches ; and William, from 
his erect figure and manner, could be recognised were there no superscriptions. 
Mr. Charles Stothard, who made the drawings of the tapestry which have been en¬ 
graved by the Society of Antiquities, communicates some interesting particulars in 
a letter written in 1819. He adds to Mr. Gurney’s account of its character as a 
work of art, that “ there is no attempt at light and shade, or perspective, the want 
of which is substituted by the use of different coloured worsteds. We observe this 
in the off-legs of the horses, which are distinguished alone from the near-legs by 








c. KNIGHT. 1 


BAYEUX TAPESTRY. 


11£ 


being of different colours. The horses, the hair, and mustr*ehios, as well as the 
eyes and features of the characters, are depicted with all the various colours of 
green, blue, red, &c., according to the taste or caprice of the artist. This may be 
easily accounted for, when we consider how few colours composed their materials.” 

‘The first of the seventy-two compartments into which the roil of needlework is 
divided, is inscribed “Edwardus Hex.” The crowned king, seated on a chair of 
state, with a sceptre, is given audience to two persons in attendance ; and this is 
is held to represent Harold departing for Normandy. The second shows Harold, 
and his attendants with hounds, on a journey. He bears the hawk on his hand, 
the distinguishing mark of nobility. The inscription purports that the figures re¬ 
present Harold, Duke of the English, and his soldiers, journeying to Bosham. The 
third is inscribed “Ecclesia,” and exhibits a Saxon church, with, two bending 
figures about to enter. The fourth compartment represents Harold embarking; and 
the fifth shows him on his voyage. The sixth is his coming to anchor previous to 
disembarking on the coast of Normandy. The seventh and eight compartments 
exhibit the seizure of Harold by the Count of Ponthieu. The ninth shows Harold 
remonstrating with Guy, the Count, upon his unjust seizure. 

The compartments from ten to twenty-five, inclusive, exhibit various circum¬ 
stances connected with the sojourn of Harold at the court of William. Mr. Stothard 
has justly observed, “ That whoever designed this historical record was intimately 
acquainted with whatever was passing on the Norman side, is evidently proved by 
that minute attention to familiar and local circumstances evinced in introducing, 
solely in the Norman party, characters certainly not essential to the great events 
connected with the story of the work.” The twenty-sixth compartment represents 
Harold swearing fidelity to William, with each hand on a shrine of relics. All the 
historians appear to be agreed that Harold did take an oath to William to support 
his claims to the crown of England, whatever might have been the circumstances 
under which that oath was extorted from him. The twenty-seventh compartment 
exhibits Harold’s return to England ; and the twenty-eighth shows him on his 
journey after landing. The twenty-ninth compartment has an inscription purport¬ 
ing that Harold comes to Edward the King. The thirtieth shows the funeral 

procession of the deceased Edward to Westminster Abbey, a hand out of heaven 

pointing to that building as a monument of his piety. The inscription says, “ Here 
the body of Edward the King is borne to the church of St. Peter the Apostle.” 
The thirty-first and thirty-second compartments exhibit the sickness and death of 
the Confessor. The thirty-third shows the crown offered to Harold. The thirty- 
fourth presents us Harold on the throne, with Stigant the Archbishop. Then comes 
the compartment representing the comet already mentioned ; and that is followed 
by one showing William giving orders for the building of ships for -the invasion of 
England. We have then compartments, in which men are cutting down trees, building 
ships dragging along vessels, and bearing arms and armour. The forty-third has 
an inscription, “ Here they draw a car with wine and arms.” After a compart¬ 
ment with William on horseback, we have the fleet on its voyage. The inscription 
to this recounts that he passes the sea with a great fleet, and comes to Pevensey. 
Three other compartments show the disembarkation of horses, the hasty march of 
cavalry and the seizure and slaughter of animals for the hungry invaders. The 
forty-ninth compartment bears the inscription “ This is Wadard.” Who this per¬ 
sonage on horseback, thus honoured, could be, was a great puzzle, till the name was 
found in Domesday-Book as a holder of land in six English counties, under Odo 7 
Bishop of Bayeux, the Conqueror’s half-brother. This is one of the circumstances 
exhibiting the minute knowledge of the designers of this needlework. Ihc filtieth 
and fifty-first compartments present us the cooking and feasting of the Norman 






116 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C. KNIGHT. 


army. We have then the dining of the chiefs ; the Duke about to dine, whilst 
Odo blesses the food; and the Duke sitting under a canopy. The fifty-fifth 
shows him holding a banner, and giving orders for the construction of a camp at 
Hastings. 

Six other compartments show us the burning of a house with firebrands, the 
march out of Hastings, the advance to the battle, and the anxious questioning by 
William of his spies and scouts as to the approach of the army of Harold. The 
sixty-third presents a messenger announcing to Harold that the army of William is 
near at hand. The sixty-fourth bears the inscription, that Duke William addresses 
his soldiers that they should prepare themselves boldly and skilfully for the battle. 
We have then six compartments, each exhibiting some scene of the terrible con¬ 
flict. The seventy-first shows the death of Harold. The tapestry abruptly ends 
with the figures of flying soldiers. 

We have probably been somewhat too minute in the description of this remark¬ 
able performance. If any apology be necessary, it may be best offered in the words 
of Mr. Amyot, in his ‘Defence of the Early Antiquity of the Bayeux Tapestry,’ 
which is almost conclusive as to the fact of its being executed under the direction 
of Matilda, the wife of the Conqueror (‘Archseologia,’ vol. xix). “If the Bayeux 
Tapestry be not history of the first class, it is perhaps something better. It ex¬ 
hibits genuine traits, elsewhere sought in vain, of the costume and manners of that 
age which, of all others, if we except the period of the Reformation, ought to be the 
most interesting to us ; that age which gave us a new race of monarchs, bringing 
with them new landholders, new laws, and almost a new language. As in the magic 
pages of Froissart, we here behold our ancestors of each race in most of the occupa¬ 
tions of life—in courts and camps—in pastime and in battle—at feasts, and on the 
bed of sickness. These are characteristics which of themselves would call forth a 
lively interest; but their value is greatly enhanced by their connection with one of 
the most important events in history, the main subject of the whole design.” 


31.— BATTLE ABBEY. C. Knight. 

In magno navigio mare transivit, et venit ad Pevensje. 

Such is the inscription to the forty-fifth compartment of the Bayeux Tapestry_ 

in a great ship he passes the sea, and comes to Pevensey. The Bay of Pevensey is 
not now as it was on the 28th of September, a.d. 1066, when this great ship sailed 
into it, and a bold man, one whose stern will and powerful mind was to change the 
destiny of England, leaped upon the strand, and, falling upon his face, a great cry 
Went forth that it was an evil omen :—but the omen was turned into a sign of 
gladness when he exclaimed, with his characteristic oath, “ I have taken seisin of 
this land with both my hands. The shores of the bay are now a dreary marsh, 
guarded by dungeon-looking towers, which were built to defend us from such an¬ 
other seisin. The sea once covered this marsh, and the Norman army came a mile 
or so nearer to the chalk hills, beyond which they knew there was a land of tempt- 
ing fertility. It must have been somewhat near the old Roman castle that the 
disembarkation took place, whose incidents are exhibited in the Bayeux Tapestry. 
Here were the horses removed from the ships : here each horseman mounted his 
own, and galloped about to look upon a land in which he saw no enemy ; hero 
were the oxen and the swine of Saxon farmer slaughtered by those for whom they 
were fatted not; here was the cooking, and the dining, and the rude pomp of the 
confident Duke, who knew that his great foe was engaged in a distant conflict. 
The character of William of Normandy was so remarkable, and indeed was such an 








BATTLE ABBEY. 


117 


C. KNIGHT.] 

element of success in his daring attempt upon the English crown, that what is per¬ 
sonally associated with him, even though it be found not in oui own island, belongs 
to the antiquities of England. He was a stark man, as the Saxon chroniclei de¬ 
scribes him from personal knowledge, a man of unbending will and ruthless deter¬ 
mination, but of too lofty a character to be needlessly cruel or wantonly destruc¬ 
tive. Of his pre-eminent abilities there can be no question. Connected with such 
a man, then, his purposes and his success, the remains of his old Palace at Lille- 
bonne which may be readilv visited by those who traverse the Seine in its steam¬ 
boats ’is an object of especial interest to an Englishman. Eor here was the great 
Council held for the invasion of England, and the attempt was determined against 
by the people collectively, but the wily chief separately won the assent of their 
leaders and the collective voice was raised in vain. More intimately associated 
with the memory of the Conqueror is the Church of St. Etienne at Caen, which he 
founded • and where, deserted by his family and his dependants, the dead body of 
the sovereign before whom all men had trembled was hurried to the grave, amidst 
fearful omens and the denunciations of one whom he had persecuted. The mutilated 
statue of William may be seen on the exterior of the same church In England 
we have one monument, connected in the same distinct manner with his personal 
character, whilst it is at the same time a memorial of his great triumph and the 
revolution which was its result—we mean Battle Abbey. When Harold heard 

“ That due Wyllam to Hastynges was ycome,” 

ho gallantly set forward to meet him-but with an unequal force. He knewthe 
strength of his enemy, hut he did not quail before it. The chroniclers say that 
Harofd’s spies reported that there were more priests in William s camp than fight¬ 
ing men ill that of Harold ; and they add that the Saxon ^ew better than the 
spies that the supposed priests were good men-at-arms. Mi. Stot c , 

‘ Account of the Bayeux Tapestry,’ points out, with reference to the ° f *£ 

Normans that “ not only are their upper lips shaven, but nearly the whole of their 
head” excepting a portion of hair left in front.” He adds, “ It is a curious cir- 
cumstance in favour of the great antiquity of the Tapestry, that time has, I be leve 
handed down to us no other representation of this most singular fashion, and t 
appears to throw a new light on a fact which has perhaps been misunderstood : 
the report made by Harold’s spies that the Normans were an aimiy of pr.ess 
well known I should conjecture, from what appears m the Tapestiy, that their 
resemblance to priests did 'not so much arise from the upper lip being shaven as 
from the circumstance of the complete tonsure of the back part ot the head 
Marching out from their entrenched camp at Hastings the Normans all shaven 
and shorn encountered the moustached Saxons on the 14th of Octobei. T e 
Tapestry represents the Saxons fighting on foot, with javelin and battle-axe, ea - 
S5 S with the old British characteristic of a boss in the centre The 
Normlns are on horseback, with their long shields and their pennoned lance^ 

Harold and his ^^of^nkfand onftislpot, whose'' subsequently 
changed^o BataUU, was built Battle Abbey. * “t 

alone that raised up ^^atTwho^tookwhat he could get by right and unright, 
and passionate man, the> matwlio t ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ Battle Abbey . 

“ W Eob“ t of Gloucester has thus described, in his quaint verse, the foundation of 
Battle Abbey :— 

“ King William bithougt him alsoe ot that 
Folke that was forlorne, 




218 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C. KNIGHT, 


And slayn also tliorurg him 
In the bataile biforne. 

And ther as the bataile was, 

An abbey be lete rere 
Of Seint Martin, for the soules 
That there slayn were. 

And the monks wel ynoug 
Feffecl without fayle, 

That is called in Englonde 
Abbey of Bataile.” 

Brown Willis tells us that in the fine old parish-church of Battle was formerly 
hung up a table containing certain verses, of which the following remained :— 

“ This place of war is Battle called, because in battle here 
Quite conquered and overthrown the English nation were. 

This slaughter happened to them upon St. Ceelict’s day, * 

The year whereof.this number doth array.” 

The politic Conqueror did "wisely thus to change the associations, if it were 
possible, which belonged to this fatal spot. He could not obliterate the remem¬ 
brance of “ the day of bitterness,” the “ day of death,” the “ day stained with the 
blood of the brave” (Matthew of Westminster). Even the red soil of Senlac was 
held, with patriotic superstition, to exude real and fresh blood after a small shower, 
“ as if intended fora testimony that the voice of so much Christian blood here shed 
does still cry from the earth to the Lord” (Gulielmus Neubrigensis). This Abbey 
of Bataiile is unquestionably a place to be trod with reverent contemplation by 
every Englishman who has heard of the great event that here took place, and has 
traced its greater consequences. He is of the mixed blood of the conquerors and 
the conquered. It has been written of him and his compatriots — 

“ Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 

I see the lords of human kind pass by.” 

His national character is founded upon the union of the Saxon determination and 
the Norman energy. As he treads the red soil of Senlac, if his reformed faith had 
not taught him otherwise he would breathe a petition for all the souls, Saxon and 
Norman, “ that there slain were,” The Frenchman, whose imagination has been 
stirred by Thierry’s picturesque and philosophical history of the Norman Conquest, 
will tread this ground with no natural prejudices ; for the roll of Battle Abbey will 
show him that those inscribed as the followers of the Conqueror had Saxon as 
well as Norman names, and that some of the most illustrious of the names have 
long been the common property of England and of France. Yet the sight of this 
place is a mortifying one. The remains of the fine cloisters have been turned 
into a dining-room, and, to use the words of the ‘ Guide-Book,’ “ Part of Hie site of 
the church is now a parterre which in summer exhibits a fine collection of Flora’s 
greatest beauties.” This was the very church whose high altar was described by 
the old writers to have stood on the spot where the body of Harold was found, 
covered with honourable wounds in the defence of his tattered standard. “ Flora’s 
greatest beauties! ” Those who can look upon this desecration of a spot so singu¬ 
larly venerable without a burning blush for some foregone barbarism, must be 
made of different stuff from the brave who here fought to the death because they 
had a country which not only afforded them food and shelter, but the memory of 

* St. Calixtus, October the 14tli. 












BATTLE ABBEY. 


119 


C. KNIGHT.] 


great men and heroic deeds, which was to them an inheritance to hs prized and 
defended. 

The desecration of Battle Abbey of course began at the general pillage under 
Henry the Eighth. The Lord Cromwell’s Commissioners write to him that they 
have “ cast their book” for the dispatch of the monks and household. They think 
that very small money can be made of the vestry, but they reckon the plunder 
of the church plate to amount to four hundred marks. Within three months 
after the surrender of the Abbey it was granted to Sir Anthony Browne ; and he 
at once set about pulling down the church, the bell-tower, the sacristy,, and the 
chapter-house. The spoiler became Viscount Montacute; and in this family 
Battle Abbey continued, till it was sold, in 1719, to Sir Thomas Webster. 
Brown Willis who wrote at the beginning of the last century, thus describes it 
in his day :—“ Though this abbey be demolished, yet the magnificence of it ap¬ 
pears by the ruins of the cloisters,. &c., and by the largeness of the hall, kitchen, 
and gate-house, of which the last is entirely preserved. It is a noble pile, and m 
it are held sessions and other meetings, tor this peculiar jurisdiction, which hath 
still great privileges belonging to it. What the hall was, when in its gloiy, may e 
guessed by its dimensions, its length above fifty of my paces ; part of it is now used 
as a hay-barn ; it was leaded, part of the lead yet remains, and the. icst is ti e . 
As to the kitchen, it was so large as to contain five fire-places, and it was arched 
at top ; but the extent of the whole abbey may be better measured by the com¬ 
pass of it, it being computed at no less than a mile about. In this church the 
Conqueror offered up his sword and royal robe, which he wore on the day of his 
coronation. The monks kept these till the suppression, and used to show them 
as great curiosities, and worthy the sight of their best friends, and all peisons o 
distinction that happened to come thither nor were they less careful about pre¬ 
serving a table of the Norman gentry which came into England with the Con¬ 
queror.” 

32.—SPEECHES BEFORE THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. 

Warner’s Albion’s England. 

Harold’s Speech. 

« See, valiant war-friends, yonder be the first, the last, and all 
The agents of our enemies, they henceforth cannot call 
Supplies ; for weeds at Normandy by this in porches giow . 

Then conquer these would conquer you, and dread no further foe. 

They are no stouter than the Brutes, whom we did hence exile : 

Nor stronger than the sturdy Danes, our victory ere while: 

Not Saxony could once contain, or scarce the world beside 
Our fathers, wdio did sway by sword where listed them to bide : 

Then do not ye degenerate, take courage by descent, 

And by their burials, not abode, their source and flight prevent. 

Ye have in hand your country’s cause, a conquest they pretend. 

Which (were ye not the same ye be) even cowards would defend. 

I grant that part of us are fled, and linked to the foe, 

And glad I am our army is of traitors cleared—so : 

Yea, pardon hath he to depart, that stayeth mal-content; 

I prize the mind above the man, like zeal hath like event. 

Yet truth it is, no well or ill this Island ever had, 

But through the well or ill support of subjects good or bad ; 

Not Ccesar, Hengist, Sweyn, or now (which ne’ertheless shall fail), 

The Norman Bastard, Albion true, did, could, or can prevail. 










120 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[WARNER. 


But to be self-false in tliis Isle a self-foe ever is, 

Yet wot I, never traitor did his treason’s stipend miss. 

Shrink who will shrink, let armour’s weight press down the burd’ned earth, 
My foes, with wond’ring eyes shall see I over-prize my death. 

But since ye all, (for all, I hope, alike affected be, 

Your wives, your children, lives, and land, from servitude to free) 

Are armed both in show and zeal, then gloriously contend, 

To win and wear the home-brought spoils, of Victory the end. 

Let not the Skinner’s daughter’s son possess what he pretends. 

He lives to die a noble death that life for freedom spends.” 


Duke William’s Speech. 

u To live upon or lie within this is my ground or grave, 

(My loving soldiers), one of twain your Duke resolves to have. 
Nor be ye Normans now to seek in what ye should be stout, 

Ye come amidst the English pikes to hew your honours out, 

Ye come to win the same by lance, that is your own by law, 

Ye come, I say, in righteous war revenging swords to draw. 
Howbeit of more hardy foes no passed flight hath sped ye, 

Since Rollo to your now-abode with bands victorious led ye, 

Or Turchus, son of Troilus, in Scythian Fazo bred ye. 

Then worthy your progenitors ye seed of Priam’s son, 

Exploit this business, Rollons, do that which ye wish be done. 
Three people have as many times got and foregone this shore, 

It resteth now ye conquer it, not to be conquered more; 

For Norman and the Saxon blood conjoining, as it may, 

From that consorted seed the crown shall never pass away. 
Before us are our armed foes, behind us are the seas, 

On either side the foe hath holds of succour and for ease : 

But that advantage shall return their disadvantage thus, 

If ye observe no shore is left the which may shelter us, 

And so hold out amidst the rough whilst they hail in for lee, 

■ Whereas, whilst men securely sail, not seldom shipwrecks be, 
What should I cite your passed acts, or tediously incense 
To present arms ; your faces show your hearts conceive offence, 
Yea, even your courages divine a conquest not to fail. 

Hope then your Duke doth prophecy, and in that hope prevail. 

A people brave, a terren Heaven, both objects worth your wars, 
Shall be the prizes of your prow’s, and mount your fame to stars. 
Let not a traitor’s perjur’d son exclude us from our right: 

He dies to live a famous life, that doth for conquest fhdit.” 








33.—INDUSTRY OF THE ANGLO-SAXONS. 

C. Knight. 

AGRICULTURE. 

The opening of the year was the time in which the ground was broken up, 
and the seed committed to the bounty of heaven. We cannot with any pro¬ 
priety assume that the seed was literally sown in the coldest month, although it is 
possible that the winter began earlier than it now does. December was emphati¬ 
cally called Winter-monat, winter-month. The Anglo -Saxon name of January was 












C. KNIGHT.] INDUSTRY OF THE ANGLO-SAXONS. 121 

equally expressive of its fierce and gloomy attributes ; its long nights, when men 
and cattle were sheltering from the snow-storm and the frost, but the hungry wolf 
was prowling around the homestead. Yerstegan says, “ The month which we now 
call January, they called Wolf-monat, to wit, wolf-month, because people are wont 
always in that month to be in more danger to be devoured of wolves than in any 
season else of the year ; for that, through the extremity of cold and snow, these 
ravenous beasts could not find of other beasts sufficient to feed upon.” There are 
preserved in the Cotton Library some very curious dialogues composed by Alfric of 
Canterbury, who lived in the latter part of the tenth century, which were for the 
instruction of the Anglo-Saxon youth in the Latin language, upon the principle of 
interlinear translation ; and in these the ploughman says, “ I labour much. I go 
out at daybreak, urging the oxen to the field, and I yoke them to the plough. It 
is not yet so stark winter that I dare keep close at home, for fear of my lord.” 
(Turner’s ‘ Anglo-Saxons.’) We thus see that the ploughing is done after the 
harvest, before the winter sets in. The ploughman continues, “But the oxen being 
yoked, and the shear and coulter fastened on, I ought to plough every day one 
entire field or more. I have a boy to threaten the oxen with a goad, who is now 
hoarse through cold and bawling. I ought also to fill the bins of the oxen with 
hay, and water them, and carry out their soil.’ I he daily task of the ploughman 
indicates an advanced state of husbandry. The land was divided into fields ; we 
know from Saxon grants that they had hedges and ditches. He was as careful, too, 
to carry upon the land the ordure of the oxen, as if he had studied a modern 
* Muck-Manual.’ He knew the value of such labour, and set about it probably in 
a more scientific manner than many of those who till the same land nine hundred 
years after him. Mr. Sharon Turner has given a brief and sensible account of the 
Anglo-Saxon husbandry, from which the following is an extract : 

“ When the Anglo-Saxons invaded England, they came into a countiy which had 
been under the Roman power for about four hundred years, and where agricultuie, 
after its more complete subjection by Agricola, had been so much encouiaged, that 
it had become one of the western granaries of the empiie. The Britons, therefore, 
of the fifth century may be considered to have pursued the best system of hus¬ 
bandry then in use, and their lands to have been extensively cultivated with all 
those exterior circumstances which mark established piopiietoiship and impiove- 
ment: as small farms ; inclosed fields ; regular divisions into meadow, arable, 
pasture and wood ; fixed boundaries ; planted hedges ; artificial dykes and ditches ; 
selected spots for vineyards, gardens, and orchards ; connecting roads and paths ; 
scattered villages and larger towns ; with appropriated names lor every spot and 
obiect that marked the limits of each property, or the course of each way.- All 
these appear in the earliest Saxon charters, and before the combating invaders had 
time or ability to make them, if they had not found them in the island. Into 
such a country the Anglo-Saxon adventurers came, and by these facilities to rural 
civilization soon became an agricultural people. The natives, whom they despised, 
conquered, and enslaved, became their educators and servants in the new arts, 
which they had to learn, of grazing and tillage ; and the previous cultivation 
practised by the Romanised Britons will best account for the numerous divisions, 
and accurate and precise descriptions of land which occur in almost all the Saxon 
charters No modern conveyance could more accurately distinguish or describe the 
boundaries of The premises which it conveyed.” (‘ History of the Anglo-Saxons,' 
Yol. HI., Appendix, No. 2.) 

fishing. 

The great season of abstincnee from flesh, and the regular recurrence through 
the year of days of fasting, rendered a provision for the supply of fish to t e 










122 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C. KNIGHT. 

population a matter of deep concern to their ecclesiastical instructors. In the 
times when the Pagan Saxons were newly converted to Christianity, the missiona¬ 
ries were the great civilizers, and taught the people how to avail themselves of the 
abundant supply of food which the sea offered to the skilful and the enterprising. 
Bede tells us that Wilfred so taught the people of Sussex. u The bishop, when he 
came into the province, and found so great misery of famine, taught them to get 
their food by fishing. Their sea and rivers abounded in fish, and yet the peojfle 
had no skill to take them, except only eels. The bishop’s men having gathered 
eel-nets everywhere, cast them into the sea, and by the help of God took three 
hundred fishes of several sorts, the which being divided into three parts, they gave 
a hundred to the poor, a hundred to those of whom they had the nets, and kept 
a hundred for their own use.” The Anglo-Saxons had oxen and sheep ; but 
their chief reliance for flesh meat, especially through the winter season, was upon 
the swine, which, although private property, fed by thousands in the vast woods 
with which the country abounded. Our word Bacon is “ of the beechen-tree, 
anciently called bucon, and whereas swine’s flesh is now called by the name of 
bacon, it grew only at the first unto such as were fatted with bucon or beech mast.” 
As abundant as the swine were the eels that flourished in their ponds and ditches. 
The consumption of this species of fish appears from many incidental circum¬ 
stances to have been very great. Rents were paid in eels, boundaries of lands 
were defined by eel-dykes, and the monasteries required a regular supply of eels 
from their tenants and dependents. We find, however, that the people had a 
variety of fish, if they could afford to purchase of the industrious labourers in the 
deep. In the ‘ Dialogues of Alfric,’ there is the following colloquy with a fisher¬ 
man : “ What gettest thou by thine art %—Big loaves, clothing, and money. How 
do you take them ?—I ascend my ship, and cast my net into the river ; I also 
throw in a hook, a bait and a rod. Suppose the fishes are unclean ?—I throw the 
unclean out, and take the clean for food. Where do you sell your fish ?—In the 
city. Who buys them %—The citizens ; I cannot take so many as I can sell. What 
fishes do you take ?—Eels, haddocks, minnies, and eel-pouts, skate and lampreys, 
and whatever swims in the river. Why do you not fish in the sea ?—Sometimes 
I do ; but rarely, because a great ship is necessary there. What do you take in 
the sea ?—Herrings and salmons, porpoises, sturgeons, oysters and crabs, muscles, 
winckles, cockles, flounders, plaice, lobsters and such like. Can you take a Whale % 
—No, it is dangerous to take a whale ; it is safer for me to go to the river with 
my ship than to go with many ships to hunt whales. Why ?—because it is more 
pleasant for me to take fish which I can kill with one blow ; yet many take whales 
without danger, and then they get a great price ; but I dare not from the fearful¬ 
ness of my mind.” We thus see that three centuries after Wilfred had taught the 
people of Sussex to obtain something more from the waters than the rank eels in 
their mud-ponds, the produce of the country’s fishery had become an article of 
regular exchange. The citizens bought of the fisherman as much fish as he could 
sell ; the fisherman obtained big loaves and clothing from the citizens. The 
enterprise which belongs to the national character did not rest satisfied with the 
herrings and salmons of the sea. Though the little fisherman crept along his 
shore, there were others who went with many ships to hunt whales. We cannot 
have a more decisive indication of the general improvement which had followed 
in the wake of Christianity, even during a period of constant warfare with preda¬ 
tory invaders. 

CLOTHING. 

The shepherd describes his duty in the Colloquy of Alfric : “ In the first part of 
the morning I drive my sheep to their pasture, and stand over them in heat and in 





C. KNIGHT.] INDUSTRY OF THE ANGLO-SAXONS. 123 

cold with dogs, lest the wolves destroy them. I lead them hack to their folds and 
milk them twice a day, and I move their folds, and make cheese and butter ; and 
I am faithful to my lord.” The garments of the Anglo-Saxons, both male and 
female, were linen as well as woollen ; but we can easily judge that in a country 
whose population was surrounded by vast forests and dreary marshes, wool, the 
warmer material for clothing, would be of the first importance. The fleece which 
the shepherd brought home in the pleasant summer season was duly spun through¬ 
out the winter, by the females of every family, whatever might be their rank. King 
Edward the Elder commanded that his daughters should be instructed in the use 
of the distaff. Alfred, in his will, called the female part of his family the spindle 
side. At this day, true to their ancient usefulness (the form of which, we hope 
not the substance, has passed away), unmarried ladies are called spinsters. But 
the Anglo-Saxon ladies attained a high degree of skill in the ornamental work be¬ 
longing to clothing. The Norman historians record their excellence with the needle, 
and their skill in embroidery. 

BREAD. 

“ August they call Arn-monat, more rightly Barn-monat, intending thereby the 
then filling of their barns with corn.” The arable portion of an estate was pro¬ 
bably comparatively small. The population of the towns was supplied with corn 
from the lands in their immediate vicinity. There was no general system of ex¬ 
change prevailing throughout the country. In the small farms enough corn was 
grown for domestic use ; and when it failed, as it often did, before the succeeding 
harvest, the cole-wort and the green pulse were the welcome substitutes. Wheaten 
bread was not in universal use. The young monks of the Abbey of St. Edmund 
ate the cheaper barley bread. The baker, in Alfric’s Colloquy, answers to the 
question of “ What use is your art ? we can live long without you : ”—“ You may 
live through some space without my art, but not long nor so well; for without my 
craft every table would seem empty, and without bread all meat would become 
nauseous. I strengthen the heart of man, and little ones could not do without 
me.” In a picture representing a dinner party, some food is placed on the 
table ; but the kneeling ^servants offer the roasted meat on spits, from which the 
guests cut slices into their trenchers. We ..smile at these primitive manners, but 
they were a refinement upon those of the heroes of Homer, who were tlieii own 

cooks. 

“ Partoclus did his dear friend’s will: and he that did desire 
To cheer the lords (come faint from fight) set on a blazing fire 
A great brass pot, and into it a chine of mutton put, 

And fat goat’s flesh; Automedon held, while he pieces cut 
To roast and boil, right cunningly: then of a well fed swine, 

A huge fat shoulder he cut out, and spits it wondrous fine: 

His good friend made a goodly fire; of which the force once past, 

He laid the spit low, near the coals, to make it brown at last: 

Then sprinkled it with sacred salt, and took it from the racks : 

This roasted and on dresser set, his friend Patroclus takes 
Bread in fair baskets ; which set on, Achilles brought the meat, 

And to divinest Ithacus took his opposed sea 

Upon the bench: then did he will his friend to sacrifice ; 

Who cast sweet incense in the fire, to all the Deities. 

Thus fell they to their ready food.” 

Chapman’s Translation of the Iliad, Book ix. 

An illumination amongst the Harleian Manuscripts exhibits to us an interesting 







124 


IIALF-HOUIIS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


C. KNIGHT. 

part of the economy of a lord’s house in the Saxon times. In the foreground are 
collected some poor people, aged men, women, and children, who are storing in their 
vessels, or humbly waiting to receive, the provisions which the lord and the lady 
are distributing at their hall door. It was from this highest of the occupations of 
the rich and powerful, the succour of the needy, that the early antiquaries derived 
our titles of Lord and Lady. The modern etymologists deny the correctness of 
this derivation, and maintain that the names are simply derived from a Saxon verb 
which means to raise up, to exalt. Horne Tooke, in his ‘ Diversions of Purley,’ 
maintains this opinion ; and our recent dictionary-makers adopt it. Nevertheless, 
we shall transcribe old Yerstegan’s ingenious notion of the origin of the terms, 
which has something higher and better in it than mere word-splitting : “ I find that 
our ancestors used for Lord the name of Laford, which (as it should seem) for 
some aspiration in the pronouncing, they wrote Hlaford, and Hlafurd. Afterward it 
grew to be written Loverd, and by receiving like abridgement as other of our ancient 
appellations have done, it is in one syllable become Lord. To deliver therefore the 
true etymology, the reader shall understand, that albeit we have our name of bread 
from Breod, as our ancestors were wont to call it. yet used they also, and that most 
commonly, to call bread by the name of Hlaf, from whence we now only retain the 
name of the form or fashion wherein bread is usually made, calling it a loaf, whereas 
loaf, coming of Hlaf or Laf, is rightly also bread itself, and was not of our ancestors 
taken for the form only, as now we use it. Now was it usual in long foregoing 
ages, that such as were endued with great wealth and means above others, were 
chiefly renowned (especially in these northern regions) for their house-keeping and 
good hospitality ; that is, for being able, and using to feed and sustain many men, 
and therefore were they particularly honoured with the name and title of Hlaford, 
which is as much to say, as an afforder of Laf, that is, a bread-giver, intending (as 
it seemeth) by bread, the sustenance of man, that being the substance of our food 
the most agreeable to nature, and that which in our daily prayers we especially de¬ 
sire at the hands of God. The name and title of Lady was anciently written 
Hleafdian, or Leafdian, from whence it came to be Lafdy, and lastly Lady. I have 
showed here last before how Hlaf or Laf was sometime our name of bread, as also 
the reason why our noble and principal men came to be honoured in the name of 
Laford, which now is Lord, and even the like in correspondence of reason must ap¬ 
pear in this name of Leafdian, the feminine of Laford ; the first syllable whereof 
being anciently written Hleaf, and not Hlaf, must not therefore alienate it from the 
like nature and sense, for that only seemeth to have been the feminine sound, and 
we see that of Leafdian we have not retained Leady, but Lady. Well then both 
Hlaf and Hleaf, we must here understand to signify one thing, which is bread; 
Dian is as much to say as serve; and so is Leafdian a bread-server. Whereby it 
appeareth that as the Laford did allow food and sustenance, so the Leafdian did see 
it served and disposed to the guests. And our ancient and yet continued custom that 
our ladies and gentlewomen do use to carve and serve their guests at the table, 
which in other countries is altogether strange and unusual, doth for proof hereof 
well accord and correspond with this our ancient and honourable feminine 
appellation.” 

WINE. 

Much has been written upon the ancient culture of the vine in .England. 
Bede says, “The island excels for grain and trees, and is fit for feeding of beasts 
of burden and cattle. It also produces vines in some places.” The later chroni¬ 
clers, who knew the fact, quote Bede without disputing his assertion. Winchester, 
according to some of the earlier antiquaries, derived its name from Yintonia, the 
city of the vine ; but this is very questionable. The Bishop of Rochester had a 




INDUSTRY OF THE ANGLO-SAXONS. 


125 


C. KNIGHT.] 

vineyard at Hailing ; and one of the bishops, as Lambarde tells us, sent to Edwaid 
II. “ a present of his drinks, and withal both wine and grapes of his own growth 
in his vineyard at Hailing, which is now a good plain meadow. The same autho¬ 
rity says, u History hath mention that there was about that time [the Norman 
invasion] great store of vines at Santlac [Battle].” He has a parallel instance 
of the early culture of the vine :—“ The like whereof I have read to have been 
at Windsor, insomuch as tithe of them hath been there yielded in gieat plenty , 
which giveth me to think that wine hath been made long since within the realm, 
although in onr memory it be accounted a great dainty to hear of. . Lambarde 
then particularly describes the tithe of the Windsor vineyard, as “ of wine pressed 
out of grapes that grew in tbe little park there, to the Abbot of Waltham; and 
that accompts have been made of the charges of planting the vines that grew in 
the said park, as also of making the wines, whereof some parts were spent m 
the household, and some sold for the king’s profit.” This is an approach to a 
wine-manufacture upon a large scale. There can be little doubt that many of the great 
monasteries in the South of England had their vineyards, and made the wine for 
the use of their fraternities. They might not carry the manufacture so fai as to 
sell any wine for their profit; but the vineyard and the wine-press saved them the 
cost of foreign wines, for their labour was of little account. The religious houses 
founded in the Anglo-Saxon period had probably, in many cases, their vineyards 
as well as their orchards. There is an express record of a vineyard at Saint Ed- 
mundsbury ; Martin, Abbot of Peterborough, is recorded in the Saxon Chronicle 
to have planted a vineyard ; William Thorn, the monastic chronicler, writes that 
in his abbey of Nordhome the vineyard was “ ad commodum et magnum honorem 

_a profitable and celebrated vineyard. Vineyards are repeatedly mentioned m 

Domesday-Book. William of Malmesbury thus notices vineyards m his description 
of the abundance of the County of Gloucester No county m England has so 
many or so good vineyards as this, either for fertility or sweetness of the grape. 
The vine has in it no unpleasant tartness or eagerness [sourness, fi om aigre], and 
is little inferior to the French in sweetness.” Camden, in quoting this passage, 
adds - We are not to wonder that so many places m this country from their vines 
are called vineyards, because they afforded plenty of wine; and that they yield 
none now is rather to be imputed to the sloth of the inhabitants than the in is- 
nosition of the climate.” This question of the ancient growth of the vine m Eng¬ 
land was the subject of a regular antiquarian passage-at-arms in 1771, when the 
HonourableDaines Barrington entered the lists to overthrow all the chroniclers 
and antiquaries from William of Malmesbury to Samuel Pegge and to prove that 
the English grapes were currants—that the vineyards of Domesday-book and other 

JS'Us prions. 'In Antiquarian dnciety inacritud tliu pnptr pallets 

i r r d"« 

anaiant a.aaads nan, TS SttS, - 

in the reign of Henry III.itTfamous 

of wine,’ even to the diligent monks, was from the 






126 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C. KNIGHT 


shores of France, where the vine could be cultivated upon the commercial principle. 
Had the English under the Plantagenets persevered in the home cultivation of the 
vine for the purpose of wine-making, whilst the claret of a better vine-country, that 
could be brought in a few hours across the narrow sea, was excluded from our 
ports, the capital of England would have been fruitlessly wasted in struggles against 
natural disadvantages, and the people of England would have been for the most 
part deprived of the use and enjoyment of a superior drink to their native beer. 
The English vineyards were gradually changed into plain meadows, as Lambarde 
has said, or into fertile corn-fields. Commercially the vine could not be cultivated 
in England, whilst the produce of the sunny hills of France was more accessible to 
London and Winchester than the corn which grew in the nearest inland county. 


The brethren of a monastery, whose labour was a recreation, might continue to 


prune their vines and press their grapes, as their Saxon ancestors had done before 
them; but for the people generally, wine would have been a luxury unattainable 
had not the ports of Sandwich and Southampton been freely open to the cheap and 
excellent wine of the French provinces. This is the course of every great revolu¬ 
tion in the mode of supplying the necessities, or even the luxuries, of a people 
amongst whom the principle of exchange has been established. The home growth 
for a while supplies the home consumption. A cheaper and better supply is par¬ 
tially obtained through exchange and easy communication—from another parish, 
another county, another province, and finally from another country. Then the home 
growth lingers and declines ; capital is diverted into other channels, where it can 
be more profitably employed. Governments then begin to strive against the natural 
commercial laws, by the establishment of restrictive or prohibitory duties. A 
struggle goes on, perhaps prolonged for centuries, between the restrictions and the 
principle of exchange. The result is certain. The law of exchange is a law of 
progress; the rule of restriction is a rule of retrogression. The law of exchange 
goes on to render the communications of mankind, even of those who are separated 
by mighty oceans, as easy as the ancient communications of those who were only 
separated by a river or a mountain. The rule of restriction, generation after gene¬ 
ration, and year after year, narrows its circle, which was first a wide one, and held 
a confiding people within its fold; but, as it approaches to the end, comes to con¬ 
tain only a class, then a few of the more prejudiced of a class, and lastly, those who 
openly admit that the rule is for their exclusive benefit. The meadows and the 
corn-fields of England have profitably succeeded her unprofitable vineyards ; and 
the meadows and the corn-fields will flourish because the same law of exchange that 
drove out the vineyards will render the home exchange of corn and meat more 
profitable, generally, to producer and consumer than the foreign exchange. England 
is essentially a corn-growing and a mutton-growing country ; and we have no fear 
that her fields will have failing crops, or her downs not be white with flocks, if the 
law of exchange should free itself from every restriction. England was not a wine¬ 
growing country, and therefore her vineyards perished before the same natural 
laws that will give the best, because the most steady, encouragement to her bread¬ 
growing and beer-growing capacity. 

HANDICRAFTS. 

Verstegan says, “Touching such as have their surnames of occupations, as 
Smith, Taylor, Turner, and such others, it is not to be doubted but their ancestors 
have first gotten them by using such trades ; and the children of such parents being 
content to take them upon them, their after-coming posterity could hardly avoid 
them, and so in time cometh it rightly to be said,— 

‘ From whence came Smith, all be he knight or squire, 

But from the smith that forgeth at the fire.”’ 






C. KNIGHT.] INDUSTRY OF THE ANGLO-SAXONS. 127 

But the author of an ingenious little book, on “English Surnames/’ Mr. Lower, 
points out that the term was originally applied to all smiters in general. The 
Anglo-Saxon Smith was the name of any one that struck with a hammer,—a car¬ 
penter, as well as a worker in iron. They had specific names for the ironsmitli, 
the goldsmith, the coppersmith ; and the numerous race of the Smiths are the re¬ 
presentatives of the great body of artificers amongst our Saxon ancestors. The 
monks themselves were smiths ; and St. Dunstan, the ablest man of his age, was a 
worker in iron. The ironsmitli could produce any tool by his art, from a plough¬ 
share to a needle. The smith in Alfric’s Colloquy says, “ Whence the share to the 
ploughman, or the goad, but for my art ? Whence to the fisherman an angle, or to 
the shoewright an awl, or to the sempstress a needle, but for my art 1” No wonder 
then that the art was honoured and cultivated. The antiquaries have raised a ques¬ 
tion whether the Anglo-Saxon horses were shod ; and they appear to have decided 
in the negative, because the great districts for the breed of horses were fenny dis¬ 
tricts, where the horses might travel without shoes (See ‘ Archseologia/ vol. iii.). 
The crotchets of the learned are certainly unfathomable. Mr. Pegge, the writer to 
whom we allude, says, “ Here in England one has reason to think they began to 
shoe soon after the Norman Conquest. William the Conqueror gave to Simon St. 
Liz, a noble Norman, the town of Northampton, and the whole hundred of Ealkley, 
then valued at forty pound per annum, to provide shoes for his horses.” If the 
shoes were not wanted, by reason of the nature of the soil in Anglo-Saxon times, 
the invading Normans might have equally dispensed with them, and William might 
have saved his manor for some better suit and service. Montfaucon tells us, that 
when the tomb of Childeric, the father of Clovis, who was buried with his horse in 
the fifth century, was opened in 1653, an iron horse-shoe was found within it. If 
the horse of Childeric wore iron horse-shoes, we may reasonably conclude that the 
horses of Alfred and Athelstan, of Edgar and Harold, were equally provided by 
their native smiths. There is little doubt that the mines of England were well worked 
in the Saxon times. “ Iron-ore was obtained in several counties, and there were 
furnaces for smelting. The mines of Gloucestershire in particular are alluded to 
by Giraldus Cambrensis as producing an abundance of this valuable metal; and 
there is every reason for supposing that these mines were wrought by the Saxons, 
as indeed they had most probably been by their predecessors the Bomans. The 
lead-mines of Derbyshire, which had been worked by the Eomans, furnished the 
Anglo-Saxons with a supply of ore; but the most important use of this metal in 
the Anglo-Saxon period, that of covering the roofs of churches, was not introduced 
before the close of the seventh century.” (‘ Pictorial History of England/ Book II. 
Chap. VI.) It is not impossible that something more than mere manual labour 
was applied to the operations of lifting ore from the mines, and fleeing them fiom 
water, the great obstacle to successful working. In the Cotton Manuscripts we have 
a representation of the Anglo-Saxon mode of raising water from a well with a 
loaded lever. At the present day we see precisely the same operation carried on 
by the market-gardeners of Isleworth and Twickenham. A people that have ad¬ 
vanced so far in the mechanical arts as thus to apply the lever as a laboui-saving 
principle, are in the direct course for reaching many of the higher combinations of 
machinery. The Anglo-Saxons were exporters of manufactured goods in gold and 
silver; and after nine hundred years we are not much farther advanced in oui 
commercial economy than the merchant in Alfric’s Colloquy, who says, I send 
my ship wdth my merchandise, and sail over the sea-like places, and sell my things, 

and buy dear things, which are not produced in this land.Will you sell 

your things here as you bought them there ?—I will not, because what would my 
labour benefit me? I will sell them here dearer than I bought them there, that I 
may get some profit to feed me, my wife, and children.” 









12Q 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


837 

858 

861 


860 

872 


901 

925 


910 

917 

955 

959 

975 

978 


1016 


31.—CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF THE SAXON KINGS. 

FROM EGBERT TO THE DEATH OF HAROLD, 1066. 


827 


(From Chronology of History, by Sir Harris Nicolas.) 

Egbert, or Egbryht, king of Wessex. He defeated and slew the king of Mercia in 
825, and conquered that kingdom and all south of the Humber in 827, when he be¬ 


came the first sole monarch of England. He died 836-7. 


Ethelwulf, son of king Egbert, succeeded his father in February, 839. Died 857, 
“having reigned eighteen years and a half.”* 

Ethelbald II., eldest son of king Ethelwulf, succeeded his father in the kingdom of 
Wessex in 858. Died 860. 

Ethelbert, or Ethelbright II., second son of Ethelwulf, succeeded his father in 
the kingdoms of Kent, Essex, Surrey, and Sussex, and in 860 he succeeded his bro¬ 
ther in the kingdom of Wessex. Died 866, “ having reigned five years.” * 
Ethelred, or Ethered, third son of king Ethelwulf, succeeded his brother Ethelbert 
in 866. Died 871, “ having reigned five years.” * 

Alfred the Great, fourth son of king Ethelwulf, succeeded his brother in 871. Died 
“ six nights before the feast of All Saints,” viz., the 25th or 26th of October, 901, 
having reigned twenty eight years and a half. 

Edward I., The Elder, eldest surviving son of king Alfred, succeeded his father in 
901. Died 925. 

Athelstan, or Ethestan, natural son of king Edward the Elder, elected by the Witan 
on the death of his father in 925. Died 27th of October, 910, “having reigned 
fourteen years and ten weeks.” * 

Edmund I., the Elder, fifth son of king Edward the Elder, succeeded king Athelstan 
in 910. Died 26th of May, 917, “ having reigned six years and a half.” * 

Edred, brother of king Edmund I., whom he succeeded in 917. Died 23d of Novem> 
ber, 955, “ having reigned nine years and a half.” * 

Edwy, or Edwin, eldest son of king Edmund I., succeeded his uncle, and was crowned 
at Kingston-upon-Thames in 955. Died 1st of October, 957 or 959. 

Edgar, the Peaceable, succeeded his brother king Edwy in 959. “Consecrated 
as king with great pomp at Bath,” 11th of May, 973. Died July 18th, 975. 

Edward II., the Martyr, eldest son of king Edgar, succeeded his father in 975. 
Died 11th of March, 978. 

1013 Swain, or Sweyn, king of Denmark, 
brother of king Etheldred II., 
usurped the crown, and was pro¬ 
claimed king in the autumn of 1013. 
Died 3d of February, 1011. 


t 


Ethelred II., the Unready, half- 
brother of king Edward the Martyr, 
whom he succeeded in 978. Abdi¬ 
cated the throne in 1012, but was 
restored in 1015. Died 23d of April, 
1016. 

Edmund Ironsides, natural son of 
king Ethelred, elected by the Witan 
in London, and the citizens, on the 
death of Ethelred; crowned April, 
1016, but was defeated by Canute, 
with whom he divided the realm, 
Edmund taking Wessex, and Canute 
Mercia. Died 30th of November, 
10] fi. 


1011 Canute, or Cnut, son of king Swain, 
was elected king of England by the 
fleet, in February, 1011. He defeated 
Edmund Ironsides in 1016, and 
divided the realm with him, Canute 
taking Mercia, and Edmund Wessex. 
That prince died 30th of November, 
1016, and in 1017 Canute became 
sole monarch of England; or, as 
one copy of the Saxon Chronicle ex¬ 
presses it, “took to himself the 
whole kingdom of England,” whilst 
another copy says, “ this year [ 1017 ] 

Died 1036. 


Cnut was chosen king.” 


Saxon Chronicle. It will be seen that the length assigned to several reigns in that work 
does not agree with the date assigned to the accession of the kings. 


CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF THE SAXON KINGS. 


129 


1036 Harold I., son of king Canute, succeeded his father, by election of the Witan, in 
1036, and died 16thof April, 1039, “having reigned four years and sixteen weeks.”* 

1039 Hardicanute, or Hardicnut, king of Denmark, half brother of king Harold I., suc¬ 
ceeded to the throne about Midsummer, 1039. Died 8th of June, 1041. “He was 
king over all England two years all but ten days.” 

1041 Edward the Confessor, son of king Etheldred II., and half brother of king Hardi- 
canute; elected to the throne before the funeral of Hardicanute, in June, 1041, and 
was crowned at Winchester on Easter-day, 3d of April, 1043. Died 5th of January, 
1066. 

1066 Harold II., son of Godwin, earl of Kent, succeeded under a grant of the kingdom by 
Edward the Confessor. He was crowned on the 6th of January, 1066, but was slain 
at the battle of Hastings, 14th of October in the same year. 

* Saxon Chronicle. 


The following Chronology of English History to the Battle of Hastings , is taken from the 


‘ Chronological Index to the Pictorial History of England.’ 

B.C. 

55 Julius Cjesar lands in Britain; gains several battles, and returns the same year to 
Gaul. 

54 Julius Caesar lands a second time in Britain; fights Cassivellaunus; forces the 
passage of the Thames; takes the capital of Cassivellaunus; appoints a yearly 
tribute, and again returns to Gaul. 

A.D. 

43 Aulus Plautius lands in Britain; defeats Caractacus and Togodumnus, and com 
pels some of the tribes to submit. Claudius arrives in Britain, receives, the sub¬ 
mission of some of the tribes, and returns to Rome after being in the island six 


months. 

50 Ostorius Scapula, propraitor, arrives in Britain; carries on the war nine years ; erects 
forts and lines; defeats the Sceni, captures Caractacus, and sends him to Rome. 
59-61 Baulus Suetonius takes Mona (Anglesey). Boadicea defeats the Romans, and is 
afterwards defeated by Suetonius, and poisons herself. 


*5-78 Julius Frontinus subdues the Silures. 

Agricola completes the conquest of South Britain, and reconquers Mona. 

79 He pursues his operations in the south-west. 

80,81 He builds Agricola’s wall; erects a chain of forts from Solway Frith to the Friths of 

Clyde and Forth. 

82 Agricola subdues the Novantse, Selgovae, and Dammi, and clears the south-west of 

Scotland. 

83 Crosses the Frith of Forth, and defeats the Caledonians. . . 

84 Again defeats them at the Grampians under Galgacus. Britain discovered to re an 

island. Agricola recalled to Rome by Domitian. 

120 Hadrian arrives in Britain; raises a rampart between Solway Frith and the German 

Ocean. 

121 He repairs the wall of Agricola. _ „ , . „ 

138 Lollius Urbicus drives the Caledonians beyond the Clyde and Forth, and there fixes the 

140 Roman frontier; erects a rampart on the line of Agricola’s forts. 

183 The Caledonians lay waste the country between the lines of Agricola and the wa o 

207 Severus lands in South Britain ; penetrates into Caledonia; builds a wall parallel witn 
those of Agricola and Hadrian. ,, . ,, 

211 He marches against the. Caledonians, but dies at Eboracum (Yor 0. ^ J 

the ground between the Solway and Tyne and the Friths of Clyde and Forth to - 

Caledonians. _ » t*•_ 

288 Carausius defeats the Scandinavian and Saxon pirates ; is made empeior > , 


&c. Britain a naval power. 

297 He is murdered at Eboracum by Allectus, who succeeds him. 
300 Allectus defeated and slain. 




130 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


A.D. 


306 Constantius Chlorus dies at Eboracum. 

337 The Emperor Constantine the Great dies. 

367 The Piets and Scots pillage Augusta (London) and make the inhabitants slaves. 

382 Maximus becomes emperor of Britain, Gaul, Spain, and Italy. 

388 He is defeated and put to death by the Emperor Theodosius the Great. 

395 Theodosius dies, bequeathing the empire of the west to Honorius- over whom he ap¬ 
points Stilicho guardian. 

Stilicho repels the Piets, Scots, and Saxons. 

403 The Roman empire dismembered ; part of the Roman troops recalled. 

407 Marcus elected emperor of Britain; dethroned and murdered. 

Constantine elected emperor of Britain; conquers a great part of Gaul; gives Spain 
411 to his son Constans; dies. 

420 The Romans finally abandon Britain. 

428 Leogaire MacNeil, first Christian King of Ireland, began to reign. 

441 The Roman party in Britain petition AEtius for aid. Gerraanus, a Gallic bishop, de¬ 
feats the Piets. 

449 Vortigern calls in the aid of the Saxons under Hengist and Horsa, whom he places in 
the Isle of Thanet. 

463 Leogaire MacNeil, first Christian king of Ireland, dies. 

Hengist and Horsa drive out the Piets and Scots. Vortigern marries Rowena. 

The Saxons fortify Thanet. Vortigern is deposed, and Vortimer elected king. The 
Saxons massacre the Britons at Stonehenge. Hengist founds in Kent the first 
Saxon kingdom. 

470 Riothamus, a lung of Cornwall, embarks with 12,000 British to assist the Gauls. 

477 Ella, the Saxon, with his three sons, lands in Sussex ; defeats the Britons, and founds 
the kingdom of the South Saxons. 

510 He dies, having been the first Bretwalda. 

527-9 Ercenwine takes possession of Essex, and founds the kingdom of the East Saxons. 
547 Ida, the Angle, lands at Flamborough head, and settles between the Tees and the 
Tyne, and founds the kingdom of Bernicia. 

.568 Ceawlin, king of Wessex, begins to reign. 

593 Ethelbert, king of Kent, becomes Bretwalda. 

616 He dies, and is succeeded as king of Kent by his son Eadbald. 

617 Redwald, king of East Anglia, becomes Bretwalda. 

The Angles of Bernicia and Deira united, and called Northumbrians. 

621 Edilfrid, king of Northumbria, is slain, and Edwin, fifth Bretwalda, succeeds to his 
kingdom. 


625 Edwin styled “ Rex Anglorum.” 

634 Penda, prince of Mercia, and Cadwallader, king of North Wales, defeat and slay Edwin. 
Oswald defeats and slays Cadwallader at Hexham. 

He is acknowledged Bretwalda. 

642 He is slain in battle by Peda, and is succeeded in his kingdom by Oswy. 

647 The Britons of Cornwall and Devonshire submit to the Anglo-Saxons. 

651 The kingdom of Northumbria again divided. 

652 Penda ravages Northumberland. Oswy sues for peace. The families of Penda and 

Oswy intermarry. 

654 Penda is defeated and slain near York. 

655 Oswy conquers Mercia, and assumes the title of Bretwalda. 

656 Wulfere made king of Mercia, and becomes Bretwalda of parts south of the Humber. 
Alchfrid obtains part of Northumbria. 

The yellow plague rages over Britain. 

670 Oswy dies, and Egfrid, his son, succeeds. 

Egfrid defeats the Piets. 

679 Egfrid invades Mercia. 

685 He is slain in a war with Brude, King of the Piets. 

737 Ethelbald, king of Mercia, rules the country south of the Humber, except Wales. 

742 W r essex again becomes independent. 

748 The Danes make their first incursion into Ireland. 




CHRONOLOGY OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


131 


A.D. 

757 

to 

794 
791 

795 
800 


825 

830 

832 

833 

834 
836 


843 

845 

851 

853 


857 

859 

863 

866 - 

871 

875 

876 


878 


879 

882 

815 

886 

893 

893- 


897 


Offa, king of Mercia, makes conquests in Sussex, Kent, and Oxfordshire ; takes part 
of Mercia; defeats the Welsh; exacts tribute from the Northumbrians; builds a 
palace at Tamworth; and defeats the Danes, who invade England. 

Constantine, a Pictish king, reigns in Scotland. 

Offa the Terrible dies. 

Beortric, king of Wessex, is poisoned by his wife Eadburgha, who is expelled the 
kingdom and the title of queen abolished. 

Egbert becomes king of Wessex; defeats the Mercians, and takes possession of their 
kingdom; establishes sub-kings of Kent and East Anglia. 

Egbert subdues Northumbria and makes King Eanred his vassal; assumes the title 
of Bretwalda. 

Ungus, king of Scots, dies. 

The Danish pirates land and ravage the Isle of Sheppey. 

They land again and are fought by Egbert at Charmouth. 

Egbert defeats the Danes and Britons of Cornwall and Devon at Hengsdown Hill. 

Kenneth II., Pictish king of Scots, begins to reign. 

Egbert dies, and is buried at Winchester. 

Accession of Ethelwulf, who gives Kent, Sussex, and Essex to Athelstane. 

Kenneth II. acknowledged king of the Piets and Scots. 

Turgesius, the Dane, proclaimed king of all Ireland. 

The Danes defeated at Okeley by Ethelwulf and Ethelbald. Barhulf, king of Mercia, 
is slain. The Danes are again defeated at Wenbury, in Devon. 

Ethelwulf goes to Rome and stops a year; Alfred, his son, is anointed king by the 
pope. Ethelwulf marries Judith, daughter of the king of the Franks, and revives 
the title of queen. 

He returns to England, and divides the kingdom with Ethelbald. 


Ethelwulf dies. 

Ethelbald succeeds, and marries his father’s widow. 

He dies and is succeeded by Ethelbert. 

Kenneth MacAlpine, king of Scots, dies at Forteviot. 

Donald III., successor of Kenneth, dies, and is succeeded by Constantine II. 

7 Ethelbert dies, and is succeeded by Ethelred, who fights nine battles against the 
Danes. 

Accession of Alfred the Great. 

The Danes under Halfden settle Northumbria. 

They invade Wessex, land in Dorsetshire, and take Wareham. Alfred heats them 
ships at sea, and they evacuate Wessex. 

A Saxon fleet destroys the Danish ships at the mouth of the Exe. Guthrun capitu 
lates at Exeter, and gives hostages. 

Alfred is surprised at Chippenham by the Danes under Guthrun, and is obliged to 
fly and the Danes overrun Wessex. Alfred takes refuge in Athelney. 

He fights the battle of Ethandune; defeats the Danes; and Guthrun embraces Chris 
tianity; and England is then divided between him and Alfred. 

Asser made bishop of Sherbum. 

Guthrun the Dane baptized. An army of pagans land and winter at Fulham. 

Constantine II., king of Scots, is defeated and slain by the Danes. 

Accession and dethronement of Hugh, king of Scots. 


Jfred gains a naval victory over the Danes. 

Ee gains another naval victory, and the same year he drives the Danes from before 
Rochester, and compels them to retreat to their ships. 

Ee rebuilds' and fortifies London. 

’he Danes besiege Paris during this and the two following years. 

rrig and Etha, kings of Scots, dethroned, and Donald IY. succeeds. 

The Danes invade England and land at Romney Marsh. Another division under 
Hasting land at Milton. The Danes of England rise in their favour; Alfred defeats 
them at Famham; he raises the siege of* Exeter. Ethelred, earl of the Mercians, 
takes Hatting prisoner, whom Alfred liberates. The Danes are routed atButtmgton 
and in various other battles. Hasting, abandoned by his followers, leaves England. 





132 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


AiU • 

901 Alfred dies at the age of fifty-three, and is buried at Winchester. 

Edward and Ethelwald dispute the succession; the latter flies to Danelagh, and be 
comes king of the Danes. 

904 Donald IV., king of Scots, lulled in battle near Forteviot, and is succeeded by Constan¬ 

tine III. 

905 Ethelwald is slain in battle by Edward. 

911 Edward gains a signal victory over the Danes. 

912 Ethelred dies, and leaves the care of Mercia to his widow Ethelfleda; she drives the 

Danes out of Derby and Leicester, compels many of the tribes to submit, and takes 
the wife of the Welsh king prisoner. 

920 Ethelfleda dies; is succeeded in Mercia by Edward, who dies, and is succeeded by 
Athelstane. 

925 Accession of Athelstane ; reduces nearly all Wales ; compels the Welsh to pay tribute, 
and drives the Coi’nish out of Devon. 

934 North Britain called for the first time Scotland. 

937 Athelstane defeats Anlaf the Dane, and Constantine, king of Scots, at Brunnaburgh ; 

assumes the title of king of the Anglo-Saxons. 

040 He dies and is buried at Malmsbury. 

Anlaf again invades England; takes a great part; Edmund Atheling regains posses¬ 
sion of it. 

944 Constantine III., king of Scots, becomes Abbot of the Culdees of St. Andrews, and 
Malcolm I. succeeds. 

Kenneth is murdered by Fenella at Fettercairn. 

946 Edmund Atheling expels Dunmail, king of Cumbria, and gives the country to the 
king of Scots; puts out the eyes of Dunmail’s sons; is stabbed by Leof; dies, and 
is buried at Glastonbury. 

Accession of Edred. The Danes again infest England; are beaten; Edred obliges 
the Danes of England to pay a fine, and incorporates Northumbria with the rest of 
the kingdom; he dies. 

948 The Danes of Ireland embrace Christianity. 

953 Malcolm I., king of Scots, is killed, and succeeded by Indulf. 

955 Accession of Edwy ; appoints Edgar sub regulus of part of England; marries Elgiva ; 

Dunstan insults him, and is banished. The Northumbrians and Mercians rise and 
declare Edgar king of England north of the Thames. « 

956 Dunstan returns. Elgiva cruelly treated and murdered. 

958,9Edwy dies, and is succeeded by Edgar. Dunstan is made archbishop of Canterbury. 
Edgar is styled emperor of Albion and king of England. 

He causes the extirpation of wolves. 

961 Indulf, king of Scots, killed at the battle of the Bauds, and is succeeded by Duff. 

964 Edgar issues a new coinage. Athelwold marries Elfrida; he is murdered; Edgar 

marries the widow. 

965 Duff, king of Scots, is assassinated, and Culen succeeds. 

978 Culen is killed in battle, and is succeeded by Kenneth III. 

973 Kenneth overcomes Dunwallon, king of Strathclyde, at the battle of Vacornar, and 
incorporates his kingdom with the rest of Scotland. 

975 Edgar dies, and is buried at Glastonbury. 

Accession of Edward the Martyr. 

978 He is murdered near Corfe Castle by an attendant of Elfrida. 

979 Ethelred is crowned at Kingston by Dunstan. 

981 Southampton is plundered and its inhabitants taken for slaves by Sweyn, a prince of 
Denmark, who afterwards takes Chester, London, and attacks many other places, 

991 The Danes ravage all between Ipswich and Maldon, and slay Earl Brithnoth. 

992 A large fleet is collected at London, but Alfric, the principal commander, goes over to 

the Danes; the eyes of Elfgar, his son, are put out by Ethelred. 

993 A Danish host land and take Bamborough Castle by storm. 

994 Sweyn, king of Denmark, and Olave, king of Norway, ravage the south, and are bought 

off by the payment of 16,000 pounds of silver. 

998 Ethelred prepares a large fleet. 







CHRONOLOGY OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


133 


A.D. 

1001 The Danes again land and ravage the whole country ; they are paid 24,000/. to depart. 

The Dane-geld becomes permanent. 

1002 Ethelred marries Emma, the Flower of Normandy, the sister of Duke Richard. 

Nov. 13. The Danes throughout England are massacred in the feast of St. Brice; 
Gunhilda, sister of Sweyn is murdered. 

Sweyn invades England; lands near Exeter, which city he plunders and ravages Wiltshire. 

1003 Malcolm II. of Scotland defeats and slays Rennet the Grim, at the battle of Monivaird. 
The Danes take, plunder, and burn Norwich, and destroy the other towns in Norfolk, 

Suffolk, Cambridgeshire, Huntingdonshire, and Lincolnshire. 

Bryan the Brave, king of Ireland, begins to reign. 

1004 The Danes return to the Baltic. 

100G Sweyn again ravages the kingdom, and is paid 36,000/. to retire. 

1008 A large fleet is built and equipped, but rendered useless by treachery of the comman¬ 
ders ; Wulfnoth takes twenty and ravages the south coast, and eighty are destroyed 


by a storm. 

1009, The Danes called “ Thurkifl’s host” land in England and ravage the country; Alphege, 

1010, Archbishop of Canterbury, defends that city, but it is taken and the Archbishop is 
1011 murdered. 

Thurkill accepts 48,000/. and the cession of some counties, and enters the service of 
Ethelred. 

The Danes under Sweyn sail up the Humber, and landing, devastate the country; 
many counties submit, and some of the Thanes do homage to him. Ethelred 
retires to Normandy. 

1013 Sweyn is declared “ Full King of England.” He dies suddenly at Gainsborough, and 

Ethelred returns, but Canute is declared king by his Danish followers. 

1014 Bryan the Brave, king of Ireland, is killed by the Danes at the battle of Clontarf. 

1016 Ethelred dies, and Edmund Ironside is chosen king by the Saxons. England is 

again divided, Canute reigning over the north and Edmund the south. Edmund 
dies suddenly. 

1017 Canute succeeds to the whole kingdom of England; murders all the Saxon princes he 

can, except Edmund and Edward, who are sent to Sweden ; he marries Emma, the 
widow of Ethelred ; engages in foreign wars. 

1019 Compels the Cumbrians and Scots to submit. 

1020 Eadulf cedes to Malcolm, king of Scots, part of his dominions called Lodonia. 

1030 Canute goes on a pilgrimage to Rome; visits Denmark; and after two years absence 
returns to England. 

1033 Malcolm II., king of Scots, dies, and is succeeded by Duncan. 

1034 Robert, Duke of Normandy, dies. 

1035 Canute dies and is buried at Winchester. 

The Wittenagemote declare that the kingdom shall be divided between Harold and 


Ilardicanute. . 

Hardicanute remains in Denmark ; Edward lands, but returns to Normandy; Allred 
lands at Herne Bay, and is received by Earl Godwin; he is captured and cruelly 

treated ; he dies. 

Harold is declared full king over all the Island. 

1039 Duncan, king of Scots, is murdered at Botfigouanan by Macbeth, who succeeds to the 

throne. . . ^ . , , . 

1040 Harold dies and is buried at Westminster. Hardicanute arrives in England, and is 


1042 


1043 

1044 

1051 


accepted as king. 

lie dies at a feast, and is buried at Winchester. 

Accession of Edward the Confessor. 

He marries Editha, the daughter of Earl Godwin. 

The Danes, under King Magnus, threaten to invade England, but, retire. . 

Swevn II., son of Earl Godwin, violates an abbess and is exiled; he becomes a pirate 
and murders his cousin Beom ; he is pardoned and restored to his government. 

A retainer of Eustace, Count of Bologne, kills an Englishman at Dover, and the count 
and his followers are driven out; Earl Godwin is disgraced; he flies to Flandeis * 
his sons Harold and Leofwin go to Ireland. 





134 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


A.D. 

Edward seizes the jewels and money of his queen Editha, and confines her in the 
monastery of Wherwell; William, Duke of Normandy, visits England at the Icing’s 
invitation. 

1052 Earl Godwin lands on the south coast; he and his sons Harold and Leofwin sail up 
the Thames and stop at Southwark; the Normans and French are banished; the 
queen set at liberty; Wilnot, one of the sons, and Haco, a grandson of the earl, are 
given as hostages, and sent to Normandy; Sweyn is banished and goes on a pilgri¬ 
mage to Jerusalem; the Saxon authority is rendered supreme. 

Earl Godwin dies at Windsor, and is succeeded in his titles and possessions by Harold, 
his eldest son. 

1054 Siward, Earl of Northumbria, defeats Macbeth near Dunsinane. 

1056 Dec. 5. Macduff and Malcolm defeat and slay Macbeth. 

1057 April 3. Lulach, successor of Macbeth, is defeated and slain at the battle of Eassie by 

Malcolm III. 

1063 Harold with his brother Tostig overcome the Welch, who decapitate their king Griffith, 
and send his head to Harold; the Welch give hostages and engage to pay the ancient 
tribute. 

Edward, the outlaw, arrives in London and dies soon after, and is buried in St. Paul’s. 

1065 Harold is wrecked on the French coast; is taken prisoner; is ransomed by the Duke 

of Normandy; Harold swears to aid William to get possession of the English crown 
after Edward’s death. 

Tostig is expelled from Northumbria, and Morcar is appointed Earl in his stead; he 
flies to Bruges. 

Nov. 30. Harold arrives in London. 

1066 Jan. 5. Edward the Confessor dies and is buried at Westminster. 

Harold is proclaimed king; the foreign favourites are dismissed; Duke W illiam 
demands by his ambassadors the fulfilment of Harold’s oath ; he refuses; the Pope 
sanctions the invasion of England. 

Tostig ravages the Isle of Wight and the coast of Lincolnshire ; sails up the Humber, 
but is beaten off; Hardrada, king of Norway, invades England, and with Tostig 
defeats Earls Morcar and Edwin, and takes York; Harold fights and beats them at 
Stamford bridge, and Hardrada and Tostig are slain. 

Sept. 28. The Normans land at Bulverhithe, march to Hastings, and form a fortified 
camp. 

They ravage the surrounding country. 

Harold arrives in London from the north, and in six days marches against the 
Normans. 

Oct. 14. The battle of Hastings ; Harold is slain. 


/ 




THIERRY.J 


THE CONQUEROR'S MARCH TO LONDON. 


T *? K 

A w J 


BOOK III. 


WILLIAM I. TO HENRY III. 


35.—THE CONQUEROR’S MARCH TO LONDON. 


Thierry. 


Whilst the army of the king of the Anglo-Saxons, and that of the invader were 
confronting each other, a fresh detachment of vessels from Normandy had crossed 
the channel to rejoin the great fleet stationed in the roads of-Hastings. Their 
commanders landed, by mistake, several miles farther north, at a place called 
Rumen-ey, now Romney. The inhabitants of the coast received the Normans as 
enemies, and a battle took place, in which the foreigners were vanquished. Wilnam 
learnt their defeat, a few days after his victory, and, to spare a similar misfortune 
to the recruits that he still expected from across the strait, he resolved, first of 
all to secure possession of the south-eastern coast. Instead, therefore, of advanc¬ 
ing towards London, he marched back to Hastings, and remained there for some 
time in order to try if his presence might not induce the people of the neighboui- 
ing country to submit themselves voluntarily. But, receiving no peaceful advances, 
tht conqueror resumed his march, with the remains of Ins army, and the fresh 
troops which had arrived, in the interval, from Normandy. He proceeded along 
the shore, from south to north, devastating all in h.s course. At Romney he 
avenged the defeat of his soldiers by burning the houses and massacreing the in¬ 
habitants. From Romney he marched towards Dover, the strongest place on the 
coast of which he had formerly attempted to obtain peaceful possession by means 
of^the oath which he extorted from Harold. The fortress of Dover, recently finished 
by the son of Godwin, under happier auspices, was situated on a rock which natu¬ 
rally rose precipitously from the sea that washed its base, and on which much pains 
and labour had*been expended, in trimming it on all sides, so as to render it as 
smooth as a wall The details of the seige by the Normans are not known , all 
that we learn from historians is, that the town of Dover was burnt down, and that, 
influenced either by terror or treason, the garrison of the fortress surrendered it.. 
William passed eight days at Dover, in constructing new walls and works of de¬ 
fence ; then, changing his route, and discontinuing his course along the coast, he 

m TheNo™" advancedby the great Roman way,called by the English Wetlin- 
treet the same which had so often served as a common boundary in the divisions 
of territory between the Saxons and the Danes. Tins road led from Dover to 
London through the middle of the province of Kent; the conquerors traversed a 
London thro 3 passage being disputed ; but in one place, where the 

portion of it.without^hen I = | forest we!1 adapted f or an ambus- 

rade Wy of»medtaxons suddenly appeared. They were commanded 

cade, a large ooay in -monastery of St. Augustine, at Canterbury, 

and tW the P A^hbK 1S of Canterbury, Stigand, the same who had crowned kin* 
IT 111 It is not exactly known what occurred in this encounter whethei tlieie 
“rI battle, foUowed by'a treaty between the two armies, or whether the capitu- 







136 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY. 

/ation was concluded without fighting. It appears, however, that the army of Kent 
stipulated for all the inhabitants of that province, who engaged to offer no further 
insistence to the conquerors, on condition that they should remain as free, after 
the conquest, as they had been before it. 

In thus treating for themselves, and separating their own fate from that of their 
country, the men of Kent, (if indeed it be true that they entered into this com¬ 
pact), acted in a maimer more hurtful to the common cause than advantageous to 
themselves ; for no edict of the time gives any evidence that the foreigner kept 
faith with them, or distinguished them from the rest of the English in his oppressive 
measures and laws. Archbishop Stigand, either having joined in this capitulation, 
or vainly opposed it (which is the most probable conjecture, considering his proud 
and intrepid character), quitted the province which had laid down its arms and 
repaired to London, where submission had not yet been thought of. The inhabi¬ 
tants of this great town, and the chiefs who were assembled there, had resolved to 
fight a second battle, which, well ordered and ably commanded, would be, to all 
appearance, more fortunate than the first. 

But a supreme commander was needed, under whom all the troops and all 
volunteers might rally, and the national council, which ought to have named this 
commander, delayed making a decision, agitated and divided as it was by divers 
intrigues and pretensions. Neither of the brothers of the late king, who were men 
capable of worthily filling his place, had survived the battle of Hastings. Harold 
had left two sons, who were still very young, and too little known to the people ; it 
does not appear that they were then proposed as claimants to the throne. Amongst 
all the candidates, the most powerful from their wealth and renown were Edwin 
and Morkar, brothers-in-law of Harold, the chiefs of Northumbria and Mercia. 
They had the suffrages of all the men of the north of England ; but the citizens of 
London, the inhabitants of the south, and some others, set up in opposition to 
them, Young Edgar, the nephew of king Edward, who was surnamed iEtheling, 
or the illustrious, on account of his descent from several kings. This young man, 
feeble minded, and without any acquired reputation, had been unable, a year be¬ 
fore, to stand against the popularity of Harold ; but he now outweighed that of 
the sons of Alfgar, and was supported against them by Stigand himself, and by 
Eldred, Archbishop of York. 

Among the rest of the bishops there were several who were neither in favour of 
Edgar nor of his competitors, but demanded that submission should be made to 
him who had brought the pope’s bull and the consecrated standard. Some of these 
men were influenced by a sentiment of blind obedience to ecclesiastical power, 
others by political cowardice ; and others, of foreign origin, and bought beforehand 
by the foreign pretender, played the part for which they had been paid either in 
money, or in promises. They did not, however, prevail, the majority of the great 
national council fixed their choice on a Saxon, but on the one least fit to command 
in these trying circumstances, the young nephew of Edward. He was proclaimed 
king, after long hesitation, during which much previous time was lost in useless 
disputes. His accession did not conduce to rally the unsettled spirits of the 
nation ; Edwin and Morkar, who had engaged to put themselves at the head of the 
troops assembled in London, retracted their promise, and retired to their govern¬ 
ments in the north, taking with them the soldiers of these countries, over whom 
they had entire influence. They vainly hoped to be able to defend the northern 
provinces distinct from the rest of England. Their departure weakened and dis¬ 
couraged those who remained in London with the new king ; depression, the fruit 
of civil discord, succeeded the first ebullition of spirit and enthusiasm excited by 
the foreign invasion. 









THIERRV.J THE CONQUERORS MARCH TO LONDON. 1 

Meantime, the Norman troops were approaching at several joints, and traversing 
in all directions the provinces of Surrey, Sussex, and Hants, plundering and burn¬ 
ing the towns and hamlets, and massacreing the men, whether armed or unarmed. 
Five hundred horse advanced as far as the southern suburb of London, came to an 
engagement with a body of Saxons who opposed them, and in retreating, burnt all 
the buildings on the right bank of the Thames. William, judging from this proof, 
that the citizens had not yet renounced all intention of defending themselves, in¬ 
stead of approaching and laying siege to London, proceeded towards the west, and 
passed the Thames at the ford of Wallingford, in the province of Berks. He 
established an intrenched camp in this place, and left troops there, to inteicept an} 
succours from the western provinces : then, directing his course towards the north¬ 
east, he himself encamped at Berkhamstead, in Hertfordshire, to cut off in the 
same manner all communication between London and the north, and to prevent 
the return of the sons of Alfgar, in case they should repent of their inaction. By 
this manoeuvre the Saxon metropolis was hemmed in on all sides ; numerous 
foraging parties ravaged the environs, and intercepted the supplies, without engag¬ 
ing in any decisive battle. More than once the Londoners gave battle to the Nor¬ 
mans ; but by degrees they were wearied out, and succumbed, not so much to the 
strength of the enemy, as to the fear of famine, and to the discouraging thought 
that they were cut off from all succour. King Edgar, the Archbishops Stigand and 
Eldred Wulfstan, bishop of Worcester, several other priests, chiefs of high rank, 
and the principal citizens of the town, obeying necessity, says a contemporary 
Saxon Chronicle, repaired to the Norman camp, at Berkhamstead, and there ten¬ 
dered their submission, to the misfortune of their country. They gave hostages to 
the foreigner, and took the oaths of peace and fidelity to him, and, m return, he 
nromised°to be kind and clement towards them. Then he marched towards Lon¬ 
don, and, regardless of his promise, permitted everything in his course to be 

devastated. 


30 _THE CORONATION OF THE CONQUEROR. Thierry. 

TJnon the road from Berkhamstead to London there was a rich monastery called the 
Abbcv of St. Alban, situated near the vast ruins of an ancient Roman mumcipa. 
town . 7 On approaching the estates of this convent, William observed with surprise 
larie trunks of trees, arranged so as to intercept his passage, or^render it ' 1 cu t. 
He°had Frithric, the Abbot of St. Albans, brought before him ; Why demanded 
the conqueror, “ hast thou had thy timber felled in this manner 1 — I have done 
duty,” replied the Savon monk ; “ and if all those of my order had acted in the 
same way, as they might and should have done, perhaps thou would* not have 
penetrated so far into our country.” William did not go on to London, but 
stopping some miles distant, he sent forward a strong detachment of soldiers wit 1 
orders to erect a fortress in the heart of the city, for his residence. Whilst these 
works were rapidly proceeding, the Norman council of war were discussing, m 
camp near London, the means of completing the conquest, so successfully commenced. 
The intimate friends of William said, that, in order to render the inhabitants of the 
yet unsubdued provinces less stubborn in their resistance it was desirable that, 
previous to any further invasion, the chief of the conquest should take the title o. 
I;i n„ 0 f the English. This proposition was, undoubtedly, the most agreeable to the 
Dukeof Normandy, but, always politic, he feigned indifference to it, and conceded 
Ms own wishes, for fear of appearing to his companions in fortune too ambitious 
of a dignity which would give him the pre-eminence over them, as well as ovei the 








138 HALF-HOURS OP ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY 

conquered nation, and destroy the kind of military equality and brotherhood whic k 
in the camp, put them on the same footing with their chief. William made modest 
excuses, and demanded at least some delay, saying, that he had not come to England 
for the purpose of making his own fortune, hut that of the whole Norman people ; 
that, moreover, were it the will of God that he should be king, the time to take 
this title had not yet arrived, as too many provinces and too many men were still 
to be brought to submission. 

The majority of the captains of the Norman race were disposed to take these 
hypocritical scruples literally, and to decide, that in fact it was not yet time to 
elect a king, when a chief of the auxiliary bands, Aimery de Thouars, who had less 
cause to take umbrage at William’s elevation than the natives of Normandy, 
addressed them with warmth, saying in the style of a flatterer and a mercenary 
soldier :—“ It is an excess of modesty to ask men-at-arms whether they desire that 
their lord should be king, soldiers are not expected to take part in discussions of 
this nature, and moreover, our debates only serve to retard that which we all wish 
to see accomplished without delay.” Those among the Normans, who, after the 
feigned excuses of William, would have ventured to agree with him, quite changed 
their opinion when the Poictevin had spoken, for fear of appearing to be outdone 
by him in allegiance and devotion to the common chief. They therefore resolved 
unanimously that previous to proceeding any further with the conquest, Duke 
William should be crowned king of England by the little number of Saxons whom 
he had succeeded in terrifying or corrupting. 

Christmas day, then approaching, was fixed on for the ceremony. Stigand, the 
Archbishop of Canterbury, who had taken the oath of peace to the conqueror, in 
his camp at Berkhamstead, was invited to come and impose hands on, and crown 
him, according to ancient custom, in the church of the monastery of the West, in 
English, West-mynster , near London. Stigand refused to go and consecrate a man 
stained with human blood, and an invader of the rights of another. But Eldred, 
Archbishop of York, more circumspect and prudent, say the ancient historians, 
recognising the necessity of conforming to the times, and not acting contrary to the 
decrees of God, by whom the powers of the earth are exalted, consented to perform 
this office for the formidable foreigner. The West Minster was prepared and deco¬ 
rated as in the ancient days, when, in accordance with the free votes of the principal 
men of England, the king of their choice presented himself there, to receive the 
investiture of the power which they had committed to him. But this preliminary 
election, without which the title of king was nothing beyond a vain mockery, and 
a bitter insult from the stronger party, did not take place in the case of the Norman 
chief. He left his camp of foreigners, and marched through double rows formed 
by them, as far as the monastery, where he was received by some Saxons, who were 
overcome with terror, or, at most, affected a steady and unconstrained demeanour 
in their cowardly and servile office. At some distance, all the avenues leading to 
the church, the public places, and the streets of the suburb were filled with armed 
cavaliers, who, according to the ancient narratives, were to keep down the rebels, 
and guard the safety of those whose offices required them to be in the interior of 
the Minster ; two hundred and sixty chiefs of the army, the staff of the conqueror, 
entered with their duke. 

The ceremony commenced by Geoffrey, bishop of Coutances, asking the Normans 
in the French language, if they all desired that their general should take the title 
of king of the English ; at the same time the Archbishop of York inquired of the 
English, in the Saxon tongue, if they would have the Norman for their king. On 
this, such vehement acclamations were raised in the church, that they resounded 
beyond the gates, and reached the ears of the cavaliers who filled the neighbouring 


THIERRY.] THE CORONATION OF THE CONQUEROR. 139 

streets. They mistook this confused noise for a cry of alarm, and, in obedience to 
their secret orders, immediately set fire to the houses. Several rushed towards the 
church, and, at the sight of their drawn swords, and the flames of the conflagration, 
all the attendants, Normans as well as Saxons, dispersed. The latter hastened to 
extinguish the fire, the former to plunder during the trouble and disorder. The 
ceremony was interrupted by this unexpected tumult, and there only remained 
hastily to complete it, the duke, Archbishop Eldred, and some priests of both 
nations. Trembling they received from him whom they called king, and who, 
according to an ancient narrative, himself trembled as much as they, the oath to 
treat the Anglo-Saxon people as well as the best of the kings whom they had ever 
elected. 

That very day, the town of London had reason to know the worth of such an 
oath from the mouth of a foreign conqueror ; an enormous war-tribute was imposed 
on the citizens, and their hostages were imprisoned. William himself, who could 
not in his heart believe that the benediction of Eldred, and the acclamations of a 
few cowards could suffice to make him a king of England, in the legal sense of the 
word, puzzled to find a suitable style to adopt in his manifestos, sometimes falsely 
entitled himself, King by hereditary succession, and at others, with great justice, 
King by the edge of the sword. But if he was doubtful about his formulas, he had 
no hesitation in his acts, and took his proper place by the attitude of hostility and 
defiance that he maintained towards the people. He did not yet venture into 
London, in spite of his garrison, and the fortified retrenchments which they had 
hastily constructed for him. He left the city, to wait in the neighbouring country 
until his engineers should have given more solidity to these works, and have laid 
the foundation of two other fortresses, to repress, says a Norman writer, the chan¬ 
geable spirit of a too numerous and fierce .population. 


^7.—ARCHBISHOP ELDRED. 

Leaving Lincoln, which by a kind of French euphony, they called Nicole , the 
invading army marched upon York, and, at a place where the streams, whose junc¬ 
tion forms the great river Humber, approach each other, they encountered the 
confederated army of the Anglo-Saxons and the Welsh. There, as at the battle of 
Hastings, by their superiority in numbers and in armour, they drove the enemy 
from their position, which they vainly endeavoured to defend foot by foot. A 
great number of the English perished, the rest sought an asylum within the wa s 
of York ; but the conquerors, closely pursuing them, made a breach m the walls 
and entered into the town, massacreing all, say the chronicles, from infants to o 
men. The remains of the patriotic army, or (to use the language of the N orman 
historians), the army of the rebels and brigands, descended the river Humber m 
boats ; thev then proceeded north, towards the country of the Scotcn, or towards 
the English territories on the borders of Scotland. This became the rallying point 
for those who had been vanquished at York, “ thither,” says an old Chronicler, 
“ the noble chiefs, Edwin and Morkar retired, as well as other men of great dis¬ 
tinction, bishops, clerks, men of all conditions, saddened by seeing their cause t le 

weakest, but not resigning themselves to slavery.” , . , 

The conquerors built a citadel in the centre of the town of York, which t 
became a Norman stronghold, and the bulwark of the conquest in the noi t . ts 
towers, filled with five hundred men in full armour, attended by several thousand 
esquires, and servants-at-arms, menaced the country of the Northumbrians How¬ 
ever, the invasion was not then carried into that country, and it is e\ en doubt l 







140 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[THIERRY, 


if the province of York was ever wholly occupied, from the ocean to the moun 
tains. The capital, subdued before its territory, was the advanced post of the 
Normans, and a post still perilous they worked day and night in tracing their 
lines of defence : they forced the poor Saxons who had escaped the massacre, to 
dig trenches, and repair for their enemies the ruins which their enemies had made. 
Fearful of being besieged, in their turn, they collected food and provisions from ail 
parts, and heaped them up in their dungeons. At this time, the Archbishop of 
York, Eldred, he who had officiated at the consecration of the foreign king, entered 
his metropolis to celebrate some religious solemnity. On his arrival he sent to 
his estates, situated at a short distance from York, for supplies for his own use ; 
and his servants, bringing horses and waggons, laden with corn and other provisions, 
chanced to meet at one of the gates, the viscount, or Norman governor of the town, 
surrounded by a long escort. “ Who are you,” demanded the Norman, “ and to 
whom are you taking these supplies ?” “We are the servants of the Archbishop,” 
they replied, “ and these things are for the use of his house. “ The viscount, 
caring little for the Archbishop and his household, signed to the men-at-arms who 
formed his escort, to convey the horses and waggons to the citadel of York, and to 
stow away the provisions in the Norman magazines. 

When the pontiff, the friend of the conquerors, felt himself touched by the conquest, 
there arose in the depth of his soul an indignation hitherto unknown to his calm 
and prudent character. Eldred started off immediately to the Conqueror’s quarters, 
and appeared before him, in his pontifical robes, and holding his pastoral staff; 
William rose to offer him, according to the custom of the times, the kiss of peace ; 
but the Saxon prelate drew back, and said :—“ Listen to me, king William : thou 
wast a foreigner, and nevertheless, it being God’s will that our nation should be 
chastised, thou didst obtain, at the cost of much bloodshed, the kingdom of Eng¬ 
land ; I anointed thee king ; I crowned and blessed thee with mine own hands ; 
but now I curse thee, thee and thy race ; for thou hast merited it, having become 
the persecutor of the church of God, and the oppressor of his ministers.” 

The Norman king listened unmoved to the impotent malediction of the old 
priest; he even restrained the indignation of his flatterers, who, trembling with 
rage, and half unsheathing their swords, desired to revenge the insolence of the 
Saxon. He permitted Eldred to return to his church at York in peace and safety ; 
but this adventure left in the heart of the Archbishop a feeling of deep sorrow, and 
perhaps of remorse for having contributed to the establishment of the foreign 
dominion. His dreams of ambition thus dispelled by actual experience, the melan¬ 
choly conviction that he was neither exempt from the insults of the foreigner, nor 
from the general slavery, threw him into a slow malady, which, by degrees, wasted 
his strength. The following year, when the Saxons, having rallied anew, advanced 
to attack the town of York, Eldred’s melancholy was redoubled, and, as if he feared 
death less than the presence of those men who still remained faithful to their 
country, he prayed to God, say the chronicles, to take him from this world, that 
he might not be a witness of the total ruin of his country, and the destruction of 
his church. 








THIERRY.] 


DOOMSDAY BOOK. 


U1 


38.—DOOMSDAY BOOK. Thierry. 

In order to give a fixed basis to the demands he made for contributions, or ser¬ 
vices of money (to use the language of the age), William had a great territorial 
inquiry made, and an universal register drawn up of all the changes of property 
caused in England by the conquest ; he wished to know into what hands, through 
the whole extent of the kingdom, the possessions of the Saxons had passed ; and 
how many of the conquered people still held their inheritances, in virtue of private 
treaties, concluded with himself or with his barons ; how many acres were con¬ 
tained in each rural domain ; what number of acres would suffice to maintain a 
man-at-arms, and how many men-at-arms there were in each county or shire of 
England ; what was the gross amount of the produce of the cities, towns, villages, 
and hamlets ; what was the exact property of each count, baron, knight, and ser¬ 
jeant-at-arms ; how much land each one had, how many tenants in fee, how many 
Saxons, cattle, and ploughs. 

This work, in which modern historians have seen evidence of genius, and a grand 
monument of national utility, was simply the result of the peculiar position of the 
Norman king, as head of the conquering army, and of the necessity of establishing 
some sort of order amidst the chaos caused by the conquest. So true is this, that 
in other conquests, of which the details have been transmitted to us, in that of 
Greece by the Latin crusaders in the thirteenth century, for example, we find the 
same kind of inquest made by the leaders of the invasion, on an entirely similar 
plan. 

In accordance with the orders of King William, Henry de Ferrieres, Walter 
Giffard, Adam, brother of Eudes, the Seneschal, and Renie, bishop of Lincoln, with 
others chosen from among the law officers, and the keepers of the royal treasury, 
traversed all the counties of England, holding in every place of any importance, 
their assembly, or council of inquiry. They summoned before them the Norman 
"Viscount of each Saxon province, or shire , to whom the Saxons still applied in their 
language, the ancient title of shire-reve, or sheriff. They convoked, or ordered the 
viscount to convoke, all the Norman barons of the province, who stated the precise 
bounds of their possessions, and their territorial jurisdictions ; then some of the 
officers of the inquiry, or commissioners delegated by them, visited each large do¬ 
main, and each district or hundred , as the Saxons expressed it. There they made 
the French men-at-arms of each lord, and the English inhabitants of the hundred, 
declare on oath how many freeholders and farmers there were on each estate, what 
portion was occupied by each in their own right, or at will; the names of the 
actual tenants ; the names of those who had held property before the conquest; 
and the divers mutations of the same consequent thereon ; so that, say the narra¬ 
tives of the time, they exacted three declarations as to each estate, what thej weie 
in the time of King Edward, what they were when King William made grant of 
them, and what at the time of the inquiry. Below each return this foimula was 
inscribed •— swornto hy all the French and all the English of the hundred. 

In each township inquiry was made what imposts the inhabitants had paid to 
former kings, and what the town yielded to the officeis of the conqueior. it 
was also ascertained how many houses had been destroyed by the vai of the con¬ 
quest, or to make way for the construction of fortresses, how many the conqueiors 
had taken, how many Saxon families, reduced to extreme indigence, veie not in a 
position to pay any thing. In the cities the oaths were administeicd by the high 
Norman authorities, who assembled the Saxon citizens in then ancient council 
chamber, now the property of the king, or of some foreign soldier ; and in places 









142 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[THIERRY. 




of less importance the oaths were taken from the royal officer or provost, the priest, 
and six Saxons, or six villeins of each town, as the Normans termed them. This 
inquiry occupied six years, during which William’s commissioners traversed the 
whole of England, with the exception of the mountainous country to the north and 
the west of Yorkshire, that is to say, the five modern counties of Durham, North¬ 
umberland, Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Lancaster. Perhaps in this extent of 
country, so cruelly devastated at two several times, there was not sufficient culti¬ 
vated land, the divisions of property were too unsettled, for it to be useful or possi¬ 
ble to make the returns ; perhaps, also, the commissioners of the Norman king 
feared that if they carried their assizes into the townships of Northumbria, the 
Saxon words might be rung in their ears which had been the signal for the massacre 
of Vaulcher the Lorrain, and his hundred men. 

Be this as it may, the rent-roll, or, to use the ancient term, the terrier of the 
Norman conquest, makes no mention of the conquered domains beyond the province 
of York. The drawing-up of this roll for each province mentioned, was modelled 
on an uniform plan. The name of the king was placed at the head, with the list 
of his lands and revenues in the province ; then followed the names of the chief 
and smaller proprietors, in the order of their military rank, and territorial wealth. 
The Saxons who had been spared, by special favour, in the general spoliation, were 
only found in the lowest ranks ; for the small number of men of that race, who 
were still free proprietors, or tenants in their own right under the king, as the con¬ 
querors expressed it, were such only of very small estates ; they were inscribed at 
the end of each chapter under the title of thanes of the king, or with divers quali¬ 
fications of domestic offices in the household of the conqueror. The rest of the 
names of an Anglo-Saxon character, which are scattered here and there throughout 
the roll, belong to farmers of a few fractions, larger or smaller, of the estates of the 
Norman earls, knights, serjeants-at-arms, and bowmen. 

Such is the authentic book, preserved to the present day, from which most of the 
instances of expropriation recorded in this narrative have been derived. This 
invaluable book, in which the entire conquest was registered, in order that the 
remembrance of it might never be effaced, was called by the Normans the Great 
Boll, the Boyal Roll, or the Roll of Winchester, because it was kept in the treasury 
of Winchester Cathedral. The Saxons called it by a more solemn name, the book 
of the last judgment, Doomsday-Book, perhaps because it contained the sentence of 
their irrevocable expropriation. But if this book was a warrant of disposession to 
the English nation, it was no less so to some of the foreign usurpers. Their com¬ 
mander cunningly availed himself of it to make the numerous mutations of property 
operate to his advantage, and to legitimate his personal pretensions to many of the 
lands seized and occupied by others. He claimed proprietorship, by inheritance, of I 
all that had been in the possession of Edward, the last king but one of the Anglo- 
Saxons, of Harold the last king, and of all Harold’s family : by the same title & he 
laid claim to all public property, and to the supreme lordship of all towns unless 
he had expressly alienated them, wholly or partly, by an authenticated diploma, par 
lettre et saisine , as the Norman lawyers say 

In the moment of victory, at that time of brotherhood between the commander 
and his companions, no one had thought of the formalities of letters-patent and of 
seisin, and each of those to whom William had said before the battle, “ Whdt I 
shall take, you will take,” had made himself master of his portion, but, after the 
conquest, the soldieis of the invasion found that the power which they had raised 
over the heads of the English, weighed, in part at least, heavily on their own. 

It was thus that William de Warrenne’s right to the lands of two free English¬ 
men in the county of Norfolk, was contested, because they had formerly been 





DOOMSDAY BOOK, 


143 


THIERRY.] 

dependancies of a royal manor of Edward ; it was the same with one of Eus¬ 
tace’s domains, in the province of Huntingdon, and also with fifteen acres of 
land held by Miles Crispin, in that of Berks. An estate occupied by Engelry in 
the county of, Essex, was, in the words of the Great Roll, seized into the king’s 
hands, because Engelry had not sent to give an account of his title. The king 
seized in the same manner all the lands to which he laid claim, and of which the 
holders, though Normans, could not or would not render account. 

Another pretension on his part, was, that each domain which, in the Saxon times 
had paid to king Edward any rent or service, should, although held by a Norman, 
pay the same rent or the same service. This claim, founded on succession to the 
rights of an English king, which could not be recognised by those who had disinhe¬ 
rited the English race, was, from the first, badly received by the conquerors. 
Freedom from imposts or services in money, except some voluntary contributions, 
appeared to them the inviolable prerogative of their victory ; and they looked upon 
the condition of customary tax-payers as wholly confined to the conquered nation. 
Many resisted the claims of their commander, disdaining to bear the imposition of 
personal servitude for the land which they had conquered. But there were some 
who weakly yielded, and their concession, whether voluntary, or bought by King 
William, weakened the opposition of the others. Raoul the Courbespine refused 
for a long time to pay any rent for the houses that he had taken in the town of 
Canterbury, and Hugh de Montfort for the lands that he occupied in the county of 
Essex. These two chiefs could indulge their haughty tempers with impunity, but 
the pride of men of less power and importance was sometimes severely punished. 
One Osbert called the Fisherman, not choosing to pay the rent that his land had 
formerly given to king Edward, as a dependance of his domain, was expropriated 
by the royal agents, and his estate offered to whoever would pay for him : Raoul 
Taille-bois paid, says the Great Roll, and took possession of the land as forfeited by 
Osbert the Fisherman. 

The Norman King also endeavoured to levy on his own countrymen, in the towns 
and the estates in his dominions, the ancient duty established by the Saxon law. 
As regards the English inhabitants of these towns and estates, besides this tax, 
rigorously exacted under the title of local custom and often doubled or tripled, they 
were further subject to a casual, arbitrary, and unequal contribution, capriciously 
and harshly levied, which the Normans called tuille or tuillage. The Great Roll 
gives a list of the king’s burgesses liable to this tax, in the order of the cities, towns, 
and boroughs : u These are the burgesses of the king at Colchester :—Keolman, 
who holds one house and five acres of land ; Leofwin, who holds two houses and 
twenty-five acres, Ulfric, Edwin, Wulfstan, Manwin,” etc. The Norman chiefs and 
soldiers also levied tuille on the Saxons, who had fallen to them, either in the towns, 
or the rural districts. This is what was called in the language of the conquerors, 
having a burgess, or a free Saxon ; and in this sense freemen were counted by the 
head, sold, given, engaged, lent, or even divided into half-shares by the Normans. 
The great Roll says that a certain Viscount had in the town of Ipswich two Saxon 
burgesses, one in pledge, and the other for debts ; and that King William had, by 
an authentic act, lent the Saxon Edwig to Raoul Taille-bois, to keep him as long as 
he lived. 

Many quarrels amongst the conquerors for the spoil of the conquered, many 
invasions of Normans upon Normans, as the roll of inquiry has it, were also re¬ 
gistered in every corner of England. For example, William de W arrenne, in the 
county of Bedford, had disseized Walter Espee of half a hyde, or half an acre of 
land, and had taken from him two horses. Elsewhere, it was Hugh de Corbon who 
had usurped from Roger Bigot, half of a free Englishman , that is to say five acres of 







144 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY, 

land. In the county of Hants, William de la Chesnage claimed from Priot a cer¬ 
tain piece of land, on the pretext that it belonged to the Saxon, whose possessions 
he had taken. This latter instance, and many others of the same nature, prove 
that the Normans regarded as their legitimate property all that the former pro¬ 
prietor might legally have claimed ; and that the foreign invader, considering him¬ 
self as a natural successor, made the same investigations, and instituted the same 
civil prosecutions, as the Saxon’s heir might have done. He called upon the Eng¬ 
lish inhabitants of the district, as witnesses, to attest the extent of the rights given 
him by his substitution in the place of the man whom he had killed or expelled. 
The memory of the inhabitants, disturbed by the sufferings and tumult of the 
conquest, often responded imperfectly to these inquiries ; the Norman, also, who 
wished to dispute the right of his countrymen, refused to abide by the deposition 
of this vile populace of the vanquished nation. In this case, the only means of 
terminating the dispute was either a trial by single combat, or a judgment in the 
King’s court. 

The Norman terrier speaks, in many places, of unjust invasions, seizures, and 
claims. It is certainly a strange thing to meet with this word justice in the register 
of the expropriation of an entire people ; and it would be impossible to understand 
this book, if we did not reflect, at each sentence, that in it inheritance signifies the 
spoliation of an Englishman, that every Englishman despoiled by a Norman 
is there termed the predecessor of the Norman ; that for a Norman to be 
just is to have abstained from taking the possession of an Englishman, who 
had been killed, or driven out by any other Norman ; and that to act otherwise 
is called injustice : which is proved by the following passage. “ In the county of 
Bedford, Raoul Taille-bois has unjustly disseized Nigel of five hydes of land, which 
are well known to have formed part of the inheritance of his predecessor, and part 
of which is still occupied by the concubine of Nigel.” 

Some of the dispossessed Saxons ventured to present themselves before the 
Commissioners of the Inquiry to claim their rights ; there were some even whose 
names were enrolled in the register, with terms of humble supplication, never 
employed by a Norman. These men declared that they were poor and wretched ; 
and appealed to the clemency and mercy of the king. Those who, after much 
cringing, were suffered to retain some small portion of their paternal inheritance, 
were forced to pay for this favour by degrading and absurd services, or to receive 
it under the no less humiliating title of alms. In the roll, sons are said to hold 
the possessions of their fathers as an alms. Free women keep their fields as an 
aims. Another woman remains in the enjoyment of her husband’s estate, on con¬ 
dition of feeding the king s dogs. And, lastly, a mother and son receive their 
ancient inheritance as a gift, on condition of their offering up prayers daily for the 
soul of the king’s son. Richard. 




ANONYMOUS.] 


SAXONS AND NORMANS. 


145 


39.—SAXONS AND NORMANS. 

From the 1 Penny Magazine.’ 

The Norman conquerors of England were rapidly absorbed by the conquered 
people : and the union of the two races took place at a period much earlier than 
has generally been stated by our historians. Though beaten in the field, after a 
long and stern struggle for their independence, and though perhaps decimated by 
seven dreadful years of war and carnage, the Saxons remained incomparably more 
numerous than their invaders, and it was considered an easier ana a wiser task to 
conciliate them than to exterminate them. From his first coming into England, 
and, indeed, before his arrival, William the Conqueror had a strong party among 
the Saxon and Dano-Saxon thanes ; this party rejoiced at his coming, and grew in 
numbers and strength after the battle of Hastings, do keep it steady to his in¬ 
terests, William at a very early period began to give these great thanes Norman 
wives. Several of these brides were of the highest rank. Thus the Conqueior 
gave his own niece Judith in marriage to the great Saxon carl W altheof, whose 
warlike qualities, and great popularity with the Saxon people, might have made 
him formidable as an enemy many years after the catastioplie at Hastings. 
William even promised one of his own daughters to Edwin, Earl of Meicia, bi other- 
in-law to the late King Harold ; and it appears that this marriage would ha\e 
taken place, if suspicions had not been excited by the conduct of Edwin, who soon 
after fled from the Conqueror’s court to put himself at the head of a formidable 
insurrection in the north country. Other young maidens from beyond sea, sisters 
or daughters to some of the noblest of the Conqueror’s followers, were affianced to 
the sons of rich Saxons who had hoped to preserve their wealth by remaining quiet. 
But the more frequent inter-marriages among the chiefs of the two nations were 
those in which Norman barons and knights espoused Saxon heiresses. The fathers 
and brothers of many noble thanes, and of many great holders of land, perished 
in battle, either at Hastings or in the course of the seven years’ war which followed 
that event • and by the ordinary dispositions of nature there was many a rich Saxon 
family that had daughters and no sons. By right of his feudal supremacy and 
kindly prerogative, William became guardian to all these Saxon, orphans, and dis¬ 
posed of their lands and fortunes as he chose ; and over such heiresses as were not 
orphans he could exercise a control through their peace-seeking fathers. It was 
better to please the SaxOD people by marrying these heiresses to his barons, and 
knffihts than to keep up a constant exasperation by forcibly seizing and giving 
away their estates ; and it should appear, in spite of the frequent bravadoes about 
the rights of conquest, that the Norman chiefs considered the best rights to such - 
estates, or the title least likely to be questioned, to be the hands of the Saxon 
heiresses whose ancestors had held them for ages. It is mentioned by several of 
the chroniclers, who were either contemporary or lived near the time, that many of 
the Norman and foreign adventurers who made part of William’s first army of in¬ 
vasion, made no other bargain with him than that they should be married to .axon 
heiresses or to other rich young women in England. These chroniclers could not 
be expected to record all the marriages which took place between the two races 
(such a piece of family history would throw great light upon an important part of 
our national history), but they mention cases enough to prove the frequency o 
such alliances, and they speak of them as a fixed principle in the Conquerors 
polity In oie generation the children proceeding from these marriages were 
numerous, and in these children the distinction between Norman and baxon was 
already lost. But other and far more numerous intermarriages took place among 

those classes that were too poor or obscure to attract the notice of King W lliiain a 

L 






HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


146 


[ANONYMOUS,, 


historians. The home marriage-market was thinned by the long wars in the south 
and the north, the east and the west. The young Saxon women were fair and 
florid, and the young soldiers and camp-followers that came from Normandy and 
other parts of France seldom, if ever, brought wives with them : the circumstances 
and natural feelings of these parties would be decisive of the matter ; but, no 
doubt, it would enter into the policy of the Conqueror to keep these young soldiers 
(many of whom were not his own subjects) in England, and in his own service, by 
encouraging and promoting their marriages with the unprovided Saxon maidens. 
Although not specifically mentioned by the monkish writers, the only annalists of 
those times, we can glean incidentally that these matches became very common 
shortly after the battle of Hastings, that they continued throughout the long war, 
and that they became still more frequent when the Conqueror crushed the last 
great insurrection in the country north of Trent, and finally subdued the Saxon 
spirit of independence. And these marriages among the commonalty contributed 
more than any other single cause to the disarming of mutual animosities, and to 
the tranquillizing of the kingdom. 

William of Poictiers, the Conqueror’s chaplain and chronicler, who is believed to 
have accompanied his hero and patron on his expedition to England, speaks with 
something like rapture of the beauty of countenance, the fair complexion, and long 
flowing hair of the Saxons. There is, however, no good reason to doubt the long- 
established opinion, that physically, as well as morally, the fusion of new brisk 
blood in the great but somewhat sluggish Anglo-Saxon stream was highly advan¬ 
tageous. If the Northmen, or Normans, had achieved the conquest of England on 
their first starting from Norway and the other shores of the North Sea, they "would 
have differed very little in race or breed from the Saxons and Danes ; but during 
the centurv and a half or more that these Scandinavian followers of Hollo had been 
settled in the north-west of France, or in those regions to which they imparted the 
name of Normandy, they had been greatly intermixed with Frankish, and Celtic, 
and other blood ; their princes and chiefs had intermarried with royal or noble 
Franks, their followers with the common people of the country or of the states 
adjacent to it. Hence black hair and black eyes, and hands and feet of compara¬ 
tively small size, were common among the real Normans who first came to Eng¬ 
land with the Conqueror, and long before that event the Normans had entirely lost 
their original Scandinavian language, and spoke nothing but a dialect of the French, 
as afterwards jn England the mixed race lost the use of the French language, and 
spoke nothing but English. If it took a longer time in England than it had taken 
in France to identify the language of the conquerors with the conquered, and if a 
good deal of the French dialect the Normans brought with them into England was 
fused and mixed with the staple of the growing English language, it was certainly 
not owing to the slow mixture of the two races, but to other powerful causes, such 
as the close and long-continued connection between England and Normandy and 
the adjacent countries, the infant and transition state of our language at the time 
of the Conquest, the somewhat more advanced state of language and civilization in 
France, the great influx of foreign churchmen, and the tendency of the Latin (the 
language of the Church) to promote the use of words that sprung from Latin roots, 
and that were taken from dialects which were but derivatives of the Latin. 
When Hollo obtained an undisturbed possession of his duchy of Normandy he re¬ 
tained no dominion elsewhere, and he appears to have given up almost immediately 
every connection with the country from which he had come; but the Conqueror 
and his descendants retained possession of Normandy and of other French-speak¬ 
ing states for more than one hundred and sixty years; and during all this period 
our kings were frequently on the continent for long periods at a time, and many of 






SAXONS AND NORMANS. 


ANONYMOUS.] 


147 


our barons held fiefs in Normandy, Maine, and Anjou, as well as in England, and 
passed a portion of their time in their castles abroad. Even after this period, or 
when King John and Henry III. had lost nearly every foot of territory in France, 
there was an intimate connection between the two people on the opposite sides of 
the Channel, and the conquests contemplated by Edward I. and achieved by 
Edward III. contributed to keep alive the use of the French language in England, 
and to engraft so much of it upon the Anglo-Saxon stock. 

But besides the real Normans, or the men of mixed race, who came over with 
the Conqueror, there were numerous adventurers from other parts of the continent, 
that came with the first expedition, or that repaired to his standard afterwards ; 
for during the seven years’ war he was frequently hard pressed by the Saxons, and 
compelled to bring over numerous bodies of recruits. In the first expedition there 
were men that came from Maine and Anjou, from Poictou and Bretagne, from 
central France and from southern France, from Burgundy and from Aquitaine ; * 
and to these were added volunteers and soldiers of fortune from the great plains of 
Italy at the foot of the Alps. All this enlarged and varied—and no doubt advan¬ 
tageously—the new blood which was mixed with the Anglo-Saxon. Of these more 
southern adventurers, many who had brought little else with them than a suit of 
chain armour, a lance, and a few hungry and bold followers, attained to high rank 
and command, married Saxon women, and became the founders of noble families. 


40.—THE DEATH OF THE CONQUEROR. 

From the ‘ Penny Magazine.’ 

At the end of the year 1086, when he had been seated nineteen years upon the 
throne of England, William went over to the Continent with a mighty army to wage 
war with Philip, king of France, for the possession of the city of Mantes and the 
country of the Yexin. But shortly after his arrival in Normandy he fell sick and 
kept his bed. As he had advanced in years he had grown excessively fat. King 
Philip said, as a good joke among his courtiers, that his cousin William was a long 
while lying in, but that no doubt there would be a fine churching as soon as he 
should be delivered. On hearing this coarse and insipid jest the Conqueror of 
England swore by the most terrible of his oaths by the splcndoui and birth of 
Christ—that he would be churched in Notre Dame, the cathedral oi Paris, and 
present so many wax torches that all Franck should be set in a blaze. It was not 
until the end of July, 1087, that he was in a state to mount his war-hoise. He 
soon came with fire and sword into the Yexin country. The corn was almost 
ready for the sickle, the grapes for the wine-press, when he. marched his cavalry 
throucdi the corn-fields and made his soldiery tear up the vines by the roots and 
cut down the pleasant trees. Mantes was soon taken, and consigned to the flames. 
Neither house nor cottage, nay, neither church nor monastery was spared. As the 
conqueror rode up to view the ruin he had caused, his war-horse put his fore feet 
on some embers, or hot cinders, and then swerved or plunged so violently that the 
heavy rider was thrown upon the high pommel of the saddle, and grievously bruised. 
The king dismounted in great pain, and never more put foot in stirrup. Forthwith 
quitting the burning town, he was carried slowly in a litter to Rouen, and again laid 
in his bed. It was soon evident to all, and even to himself, that his last hour was 
approaching. Being troubled by the noise and bustle of Rouen, and desirous o± 
dying in a holy place, he made his people carry him to the monastery ot bt Gervas 

* jt was the custom for women at their churching to carry lighted tapers in theii hands, 
and present them at the altar. 







148 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[ANONYMOUS. 


outside tlie city walls. He lingered for six weeks, during which he was surrounded 
by doctors, priests, and monks. On the nearer approach of death his heart 
softened, and though he preserved the kingly decorum and conversed calmly on the 
wonderful events of his life, he is said to have felt the vanity of all human gran¬ 
deur, and a keen remorse for the crimes and cruelties he had committed. He sent 
money to Mantes to rebuild the churches and houses of religion he had burned, and 
he ordered large sums to be paid to the churches and monasteries in England, which 
he had plundered and impoverished. He released all his state prisoners, as well 
Saxons as others, some of whom had pined in dungeons for more than twenty years.. 
Robert, his eldest son, who had had many violent quarrels with his father, was 
absent, but his two younger sons, William and Henry, who were successively kings 
of England, were assiduous round the death-bed, waiting impatiently for the de¬ 
claration of his last will. A day or two before his death the conqueror assembled 
some of his prelates and chief barons in his sick chamber, and raising himself in 
his bed, he with a solemn and ghastly countenance declared in their presence that 
he bequeathed the duchy of Normandy and its other dependencies to his eldest son 
Robert. “ As to the crown of England,” said the dying monarch, “ I bequeath it 
to no one, as I did not receive it, like the duchy of Normandy, in inheritance from 
my father, but acquired it by conquest and the shedding of blood with mine own 
good sword. The succession to that kingdom I therefore leave to the decision of 
God, only desiring most fervently that my son William, who hath ever been dutiful 
to me, may obtain it, and prosper in it.” “ And what do you give unto me, oh ' 
my father ?” eagerly cried Prince Henry. “ Five thousand pounds weight of silver 
out of my treasury.” “ But what can I do with five thousand pounds of silver, if I 
have neither lands nor a home «” Here the dying king put on the look of a pro¬ 
phet, and said, “ Be patient, 0 Henry ! and have trust in the Lord: suffer thy 
elder brothers to precede thee, and thy time will come after theirs.” Henry the 
Beauclerc, and the craftiest and cleverest of the unloving brotherhood, went straight 
and drew the silver, which he weighed with great care, and then furnished himself 
with a strong coffer to keep his treasure in. William Rufus left the king’s bedside 
at the same time, and, without waiting to see his father breathe his last, hastened 
over to England to seize the royal treasures deposited in Winchester castle and to 
look after his crown. 

About sunrise, on the 9tli of September, the conqueror was roused from a stupor 
into which lie had fallen by the sound of bells. He eagerly inquired what the 
noise meant, and was told that they were ringing the hour of prime in the church 
of St. Mary. He lifted his clasped hands to heaven, and saying “ I recommend my 
soul to my Lady Mary, the holy mother of God,” instantly expired. His last faint 
sigh was the signal for a general flight and scramble. The knights, priests, and 
doctors, who had passed the night near him, put on their spurs, mounted their 
horses, and galloped off to their several homes to have an eye to their own interests. 
The king’s servants and some vassals of inferior rank proceeded to rifle the apart¬ 
ments of the arms, silver vessels, linen and royal dresses, and then were to horse 
and away like their betters. Some took one thing, some another ; nothing worth 
the carrying was left behind—no, not so much as the bed-clothes. From prime to 
tierce, or for about three hours, the corpse of the mighty conqueror, abandoned by 
sons, friends, servants and all, lay in a state of almost perfect nakedness on the 
bare boards of the chamber in which he had expired. The citizens of Rouen either 
ran about the streets asking news and advice from every one they met, or busied 
themselves in concealing their money and valuables. At last the clergy and the 
monks recovered the use of their faculties, and thought of the decent duties owing 
to the mortal remains of their sovereign; and, arraying themselves ill their best 




ANONYMOUS.] 


THE DEATH OF THE CONQUEROR. 


149 


habit3, and forming in order of procession they went with crucifix, burning tapers, 
and incense, to pray over the abandoned and dishonoured body for the peace of its 
soul. The archbishop of Rouen ordained that the king should be interred at Caen 
in the church of St. Stephen, which he had built and royally endowed. But even 
now there was none to do it honour : his sons, his brothers, his relations, were all 
absent and of all the Conqueror’s officers and rich vassals not one was found to 
take charge of the obsequies. At length a poor knight named Herluin who lived 
in the neighbourhood, charged himselt with the trouble and expense of the funeral. 

« out of his natural good nature and love of God.” This poor and pious kmgit 
en^ed the proper attendance and a wain ; he conveyed the king’s body on the 
cart to the banks of the Seine, and from thence in a barge down the river and its 
estuary to the city of Caen. Gilbert, Abbot of St. Stephen’s, with all his monks 
came out of Caen to meet the body, and other churchmen and the inhabitants ot 
the city ioining these, a considerable procession was formed. But as they went 
along a fire suddenly broke out in the town ; laymen and clerks ran to extinguish 
it and the abbot and his monks were left alone to conduct the remains of the king 
to the church which he had founded. Even the last burial service did not pass 
undisturbed. The neighbouring bishops and abbots assembled for this solemn 
ceremony The mass and requiem had been said; the mcense was filling the 
church with its holy perfume, the Bishop of Evreux had pronounced the panegyric, 
and the body was about to be lowered into the grave prepared for it in the church 
between the altar and the choir, when a man, suddenly rising in the crowd exclaimed 
with a loud and angry voice which made the prelates and monks to start and cross 
themselves—“ Bishop, the man whom thou hast praised was a lobber The y 
ground on which we are standing is mine, and is the site where my fathers ouse 
stood. He took it from me by violence, to build this church on it. I leclan t 
as my right ; and in the name of God, I forbid you to bury him here, or cover him 
witl/my edebe.” The man who spoke thus boldly was Asselme Fitz Aithui, o 
had often" asked a just compensation from the king in his lifetime. Many of the 
persons present confirmed the truth of his statement ; and, after some parley and 
chaffering the bishop paid him sixty shillings for the grave alone engaging to 
procure him hereafter the full value of the rest of his land. The body dressed m 
royal robes but without a coffin, was then lowered into the narrow tomb ; the rest 
of'the ceremony was hurried over, the people dispersed, the prelates went to then 
homes and the abbot and monks of St. Stephen’s went to their cloisters leaving 
only one brother of the house to sprinkle holy water over the flat stone that covered 
t Wmve and to pray for the soul of the departed. The traveller may yet stand 
and muse over that grave in the quaint old Norman church at Caen ; but the eques¬ 
trian statue of the Conqueror, placed against one of the external pillars of the clinic , 
has been wantonly and barbarously mutilated. 







150 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


REV. J. WHITE 


41.—DEATH AND BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. 

Rev. J. White. 

William. 

Wolfstan, a Saxon monk. 

Asselyn Fitzarthue. 

Townsmen. 

Friar. 

Abbot, Peasants, &c. 

The Church of Saint Gervas , near Rouen. 

Wolfstan , a monk , stands absorbed in thought. His hands clasped. Two townsmen 

observing him. 

First Townsman. He’ll stand you thus whole days : his eyeballs fixed 
On one sole spot; his hands close clenched in prayer. 

Second Townsman They look as if they clutch’d a sword, so swoll’n 
The veins, so tight the grasp. I’ll speak to him. 

First Townsman. Nay, ’tis of evil omen ; if he speaks 
’Tis well, but not the Abbot’s self has courage 
To address him first. Crazed with such grief he is 
That like a crumbling ruin he may fall, 

’Neath the mere sound that shakes the circling air, 

And bury rash intruders. 

Second Townsman. Ruin indeed— 

So wan with misery, so sunk in gloom 
No face has met my eyes. What is his name % 

First Townsman. Wolfstan, an English monk. I know no more; 

Save that he left his English monastery 
Six years since, and, they say, has secret arts 
Known only to himself, whereby the Future 
Lifts its thick curtain up, and at set times, 

After lone Vigils, he can see in the sky 
—Viewless to all beside,—strange sights as clear 
As needled pictures on the Arras cloths 
That hang Duke William’s walls. 

Wolfstan — {mutters). It tarries long ! 

Yet it will come. Onward in thickening gloom 
It rolls the lurid cloud, in whose deep folds 
Vengeance lies blind yet watchful. Let it come ! 

Second Townsman. Is it a prayer he mutters, or a curse ? 

I shudder at his words— {goes near) —Your blessing, Father. 

Wolfstan. I have no blessing. You are young and strong ; 

Go forth into the sunshine ; hear the birds ; 

Look on the skies ; wander amid the trees ;— 

Blessing may reach your heart from sight and sound, 

From motion and the pleasant summer air, 

But on my tongue, it dies, like rain in sand. 

\_The two townsmen retire. 

Asselyn Fitzarthur—{in rags and misery) —I pray you, father, give your 
ear to me,— 

A broken man am I ; wasted with grief.— 

Wolfstan — {lays his hand on Asselyn's shoulder). I know. I feel through 
all my sense a glow, 







1M 


EEV. J. WHITE.] DEATH AND BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. • 

As if we two were partners of one Thought;— 

As if our souls were two half-darken’d rooms 
In one lone house, and on the noiseless floor 
Played with grim joy the Hellchild, Hate— 

Asselyn. I feel it! 

And many a year have thrill’d beneath its feet. 

How is’t you know my thought ? 

Wolfstan. Man’s covering 

Grows crystal when the heart it holds is fire. 

I fix my spirit on your’s, and draw it forth 
Like dew drops from the grass. 

Asselyn. Help me, oh father, 

For I am choked with meaning, and my lips 
Close, as if barr’d in iron 1 

Wolf stan. —This is one 

Whose soul is as my own.—The man you hate 
Is powerful. 

Asselyn. Powerful. 

Wolf stan. He shall die ! 

Asselyn. (eagerly .) How soon ? 

Wolfstan. I know not ; but a Vision night by night 
Comes to my pallet, pointing to a tomb 
Where oozing slowly from the broken grave-stone 
Comes blood, and trickles, dark, among the weeds. 

Asselyn. I would not he should thus escape my voice, 

Or hide him from my eye ; once, face to face 
We stood, and I would see him once again ! 

Have I not starved since then, from year to year 
And felt the hunger like a tightning grasp 
Fold on my heart ? He wrong’d me of my lands, 

My house, my name ; and left me the sole wealth 
Of Hatred for my covering, food and rest. 

Oh ! father, let me lift your shrunken hand 
High up, and hear you curse him ere he dies ! 

Wolfstan. Nor for your wrongs I curse him ; not for mine: 
Not for the land’s he tramples into ruin : 

Nor for my native England s fettered giief 
Yet I will curse him. 

Enter Friar. 

Friar. Father, hear my speech. 

Fever hath struck Duke William to the ground 

And death sits at his bed. 

Wolfstan {smiles). He speaks old words 

That have been in my ears these many days. 

Asselyn. How ? He we spoke of— 

Wolfstan. Hush— 

Friar. And hither came 

His Highness that he breathe the sacred air 
Of Holy Gervas till he breathe no more. 

Asselyn. May I not dash into his ghastly room 

And hear him groan his last ! 

Wolfstan. No—to your home, 





152 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY 


Go while you may. Vengeance will reach him yet. 

Friar. And now he summons to his couch of pain 
Your ministering prayer. 

Wolfstan. I come to him. 


[rev. j. whit 


[Exit Asselyn 


SCENE SECOND. 

Chamber in St. Gervas Monastery. William dying. 

William—A ttendant. 

William. Where is my son—my William ? 

Attendant. Gone in haste 

To cross to England and to seize the Crown. 

William. The Crown ! and I alive ? Call Henry hither. 
Attendant. He’s gone, sire, with the coin your Highness gave. 
William. And left me thus ! Bear witness, noble Knights,— 
Come nearer, 1 would see you while I speak, 

Why come you not, and stand before my sight ? 

Attendant. Sire, all have left you : all but only I. 

William. I could have borne it all—but my two sons ! 

If they had left my side in battle thus, 

The Headsman had unspurred them with his axe ! 

And now I face this Enemy alone ! 

This Death, whose icy hand is on my throat, 

And none comes to the rescue.—Arms ! Sir Knave, 

My cuirass of bright steel ; my shining greaves 
My sword, my gauntlets. Let me meet the foe 
As fits my name, not idly, like a monk 
Dreaming his dream of life till death awakes him. 

Quick !—or I perish.—See you how he stands 
With eyeless socket fixed upon my face, 

And a proud smile upon his bony lips ? 

Yield me to ransom ? Ha ! my arm is chilled,— 

I cannot fight, but I’ve no craven cry, 

I yield not— 

Wolf stan ( who has entered noiselessly). William— 

William. Soh ! The fantom fades, 

I breathe again. Who speaks 1 

Attendant. The holy priest 

Bich with deep prayer from Gervas inner shrine. 

William. Why came you not ere this ? Your solemn presence 
Might have dispelled these shadows, like the sun. 

Wolf stan. They are not shadows. 

William. There’s a tone i’ the voice 

That racks me. There is English on your tongue. 

Wolf stan. And in my heart. 

William. I will not have your prayers ! 

They will not reach to heaven, clogged with the hate 
That weighs them down. 

Wolf stan. How know you that I hate ? 

William. All hate me—all ; the ruddy cheeked young child 
That lisps its broken words, the grey haired man 
That staggers in his speech from weary age. 










BEV. J. WHITE.] DEATH AND BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. 

All join in hate to me. The very maids 
Who love all else by the compelling force 
Of sixteen summers mellowing all their thoughts 
Curse me,—and call me tyrant. 

Wolfstan. Say they falsely 

Who name you thus ? Look inward ere you speak. 

William. There is a bitter taunting in your words,— 

Have you no comfort for a tortured man, 

Whose soul is sick to death, and needs your help ; 

Not that you sting him with those maddening eyes ! 

Wolf stan. What ! you’d have soothing words to clear your path 
To heaven, as heralds to your kingly state ? 

Think, king ! now reft of crown ! Think, bloody man, 

Of what a naked grovelling thing you are ! 

And ask no pardon till you’ve purchased peace. 

William. I have enriched our holy mother church, 

With wealth so vast that gold fills every shrine. 

Wolfstan. Blasphemous gold, that fills the shrine with curses. 
William. There’s not a plain in all our English realm 
But shall be studded with majestic towers, 

To watch upon its peace. Chantries shall rise 
In every dell ; Bve poured my guarded wealth 
In a rich flood, at shrine of every saint 

Whoe’er drew English breath. 

Wolfstan. They’ll spurn the wealth 

Wrung from their country’s blood. Have you no thought 
Of sins no gold can cover ? Life fleets fast 
From you—from me—this meeting is our last, 

Answer me quickly. 

William. A film is on my eye, 

I cannot see you, yet I hear your voice 

And shake beneath it. Have we met ere now 1 

Wolfstan. Yes ! 

William. Where % 

Wolfstan. Where a red flame rose up to heaven 

From a lone cottage in a forest dell, 

And lust and murder held their revelry. 

William. I would that Forest ne’er had stretched its bounds, 

Nor trenched upon the homes of living men. 

Wolfstan. Have you forgot that pleasant eve in June, 

When your array burst in with jubilant cries 
On the small circle, cleared from bush and tree, 

Where stood a cottage near a babbling broo k . 

William. There were so many—and I fired them a, . 

Wolfstan. But this the blackest of your deeds of shame. 

When rose from his stone bench beside the door 
A grey haired man, and held his withered hands 
To pray for pity, and with faltering voice 
Claimed for his own the land where he was born, 

Where all his fathers lived, from Alfred s days, 

With a brief nod you cut his pleadings short. 

And a fierce Norman murderer earned your thanks, 


153 








154 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


REV. J. WHITE 


By pityless stabs in that old grandsire’s breast. 

Then from the cottage rushed a maiden forth, 

As if the bursting flames had leapt to shape, 

And clothed an angel in their blinding glow, 

So bright, so dazzling in her beautiful fear, 

That there was pause among the murderous crew,— 

Till with a cry she saw her grandsire slain, 

And fell, a white insensate form of snow, 

Prone on his breast, till all the oozing .blood 
Dabbled her stainless robes and sunbright hair. 

Then—William,—Conqueror,—tyrant,—fiend of hell! 

What then ?—You still have memory of that time ? 

William. Pardon—oh ! pardon—let me die in silence. 

Wolfstan. No—the last sound that fills your failing ear 
Shall be my voice. Your hapless victim died, 

By heaven’s great gift, unconscious of her wrong, 

Spotless in soul, and by her corpse I knelt, 

Lifting my hands in the great eye of heaven, 

And swore to be revenged. Day after day 
In my lone cell I’ve thought upon that oath, 

And nearer, nearer my revenge approached. 

I heard it coming in the silent hours ; 

I felt its breath upon me as I lay 
In lonely vigils. And my sister’s voice, 

Her’s—that lone girl’s—was mingled with its words. 

We are alone, oh ! King— 

William. Have mercy, father ! 

Wolf stan. No ! ’Tis for this I’ve waited ; here we stand 
In presence, as we stood, a stripling I, 

You a great king, gorged with success and blood ; 

You spurned me, you denied the pity I claimed. 

Once more we are together,—a foul thing, 

Hated, deserted, lonely, powerless, you— 

I, the relentless angel of your doom ! 

Unpitied, unforgiven, unconfessed, 

Hopeless, despairing you descend to dust ; 

And I, that in this hand can lift the blessing 
Of Holy Church, and shrive you of your sins, 

That in this palm carry the peace of heaven— 

William. Oh ! pardon—priest, or leave me. Let that peace 
Fall on my head ! 

Wolf stan. I clutch my fingers thus, 

And keep that blessing in my sinewy grasp. 

See ! my shut fingers doom you to despair. 

William. Is there no hope 1 give but one little sign, 

My eyes are failing, spread your pardoning fingers,— 

I shudder at your close shut hand.— r 


SCENE THIRD. 

Burial Ground at Caen. A Coffin lying beside an open Grave. 

Enter Friar Eustace and four Peasants. 

Friar. Death sheds no holiness around this man, 







155 


REV. J. WHITE.] DEATH AND BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. 

Toil-wearied boors who met us on the way 
Cross’d them, in terror of his evil name ; 

But not a bonnet rose in reverence 
To him that was a king. 

1st. Peasant. Father, we hope 

You’ve not been sparing of the holy water 
Upon these coffin boards. 

2 nd. Peasant. I fear to touch them, 

They say the dead man was a murderer. 

Friar. He was the mightiest Conqueror earth e’er saw, 

And ruled the greatest kingdoms of the world. 

Peasant. Howbeit he was a murderer I’ve heard tell 
And little good his conquests do him now. 

j Friar. The Holy Abbot promised to be here 
At noon—to bless the grave. Draw near, my friends, 

And lift the bier. 

Enter Asselyn. 

Asselyn. Woe ! woe to all! forbear ! 

Peasant. ’Tis Asselyn Fitzarthur crazed and poor, 

Speak to him, father. 

Asselyn. Look where curls the smoke 

Down in the dell,—see how in snaky folds 
It coils around the hamlet, pushing forth 
A lapping tongue of flame from roof and window. 

Peasant. ’Tis truth he speaks, there’s fire o’er all the town. 

[An alarum bell is rung t 

Asselyn. Aye, ring the alarum, ’tis a jubilee day, 

And flames are but the ministers of heaven, 

To purify the air from so much woe, 

As this foul murderer brings,—burst forth, ye fires, 

Upsent from the abyss, to write his name 
In scorching ruin on the blackened sky ! 

Come vultures, sit upon his breast and croon 
Your songs of rapine ! Leave the bloated corpse 
To waste into the elements, nor stain 
Earth’s bosom with its noisome pestilence. 

Fly ! for your dwellings burn,—roof, wall, and floor, 

You cannot quench them, not if all the blood 
Shed by this Conqueror, gushed in one full tide 

Mid the hot embers. [ Exeunt Peasants. 

May I lift the lid 

And gaze upon the dead ? 

Friar, No—back a space,— 

[ The reflection of the jlame is seen. The bell tolls continually. 
Here comes the Abbot—scarce his holy words 
Can reach us mid the clamours of that bell. 

Abbot. Quick ! brother Eustace, into sacred earth 
Lay th'e deserted body of the king. 

Death has assoiled him of the darkening crimes, 

That barred the Church’s blessing while he breathed. 

Asselyn. Stop ! I command you. Here I plant my foot 
On soil that was my own,—it held my cradle. 












156 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[REV. J. WHITE. 


It held my fathers’ graves ; but swollen in pride, 

The man you’d bury, dashed me from my home, 

Seized my rich fields, and raised this hallowed fane 
As if in mockery on my ravaged land. 

I claim it—I debar you from the grave, 

Till Justice makes it his, and his heaped treasures 
Ransom the soil from Asselyn and his line. 

Abbot . This is no time for bargain and for sale, 

Let dust, I pray, return to dust in peace, 

And take this purse in quittance of your claim. 

Asselyn. ’Tis but these narrow feet of burial soil 
I quit for this poor coin. These fields are mine, 

These upland levels—these ancestral trees, 

Are Asselyn’s again !—Unwept, unhonoured, 

Sink ! a forgotten thing into the ground, 

Where once your step was proudest.— 

Abbot. Friends, proceed. 

After long tempest let him rest at last, 

And Heaven in mercy look upon his sins. 

[They put the cofin hurriedly into the grave and disperse. 


42.—CHARACTER OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. 

From the ‘ Penny Cyclopaedia.’ 

The character of the Conqueror has been graphically sketched by the Saxon 
chronicler from personal knowledge—‘ For we looked on him,’ says the writer, 
‘and some while lived in his herd (on his hirede).’ The feature that had chiefly 
impressed itself upon this close observer was what he calls his starkness, by which 
he seems to mean his unbending strength of will and firmness or tenacity of pur¬ 
pose. Three times in the course of his description he remarks this. But while he 
was stark beyond all measure, and very savage to those who withstood him, the 
honest chronicler states, on the other hand, that he was mild to good men who 
loved God, and that he was a very wise man, as well as very rich, and more worth¬ 
ful and strong than any of his ancestors. William indeed was far from being all 
devil, any more than his father (Robert le Diable), whom he seems to have a good 
deal resembled, and who was complimented by his contemporaries with the epithet 
of the Magnificent, as well as with the other expressive surname by which he is 
commonly remembered. With all his ferocity, William evinced throughout his 
life a reverence both for the ordinances and the ministers of religion ; and, al¬ 
though he would not suffer either his clergy or the pope to erect within his king¬ 
dom an ecclesiastical dominion separate from and independent of that of the crown, 
he showed himself anxious on all occasions to maintain the respectability of the 
church by promoting able men to the chief places in it, as well as by upholding it 
in its legal rights and powers. That he was eminently endowed with the qualities, 
both moral and intellectual, that raise men above their fellows, is abundantly proved 
by what he did. Few men have projected the influence of their genius across so 
wide an expanse both of time and space as the founder of the Norman dynasty in 
England. In moral disposition William was passionate and ruthless ; but he does 
not appear to have been vindictive, nor even, properly speaking, cruel or blood¬ 
thirsty, notwithstanding the destructive character of some of his military opera¬ 
tions. There was nothing weak, nothing little about this great king. In his latter 



CHARACTER OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. 


157 


ANONYMOUS.] 


days, the chronicler intimates, he fell into the vices of avarice and greediness ; but 
this love of money was only one of the forms assumed by his love of power, the 
natural passion of all superior minds. So one of the forms in which the energy 
and ardour of his character were displayed was his passion for the chace. “ So 
much he loved the high-deer iliea deor ),’ naively writes the Saxon annalist, ‘ as if 
he had been their father. It is plain indeed that the deer and other ferae naturae 
had quite as much of his affection as his children, and somewhat more than his 
subjects. ‘ He made laws,’ says the chronicler, ‘that whosoever should slay hart 
or hind, him man should blind. As he forbade the slaying of harts, so also did he 
of boars. He also decreed about hares, that they should go free.’ 

The principal portion of the laws of the Conqueror that has come down to us 
consists of a capitulary which is said to have been drawn up and agreed upon in an 
assembly of the principal persons of the realm whom he called together about the 
year 1070. It is for the most part a selection of the laws previously in force in 
the Saxon times, according to their last general revision by Canute the Great. It 
exists both in Latin and in Romance, or old French ; and the Latin version, which 
is preserved in the history attributed to Ingulphus, has usually been reckoned the 
orio-inal ; but Sir Francis Palgrave, who has printed both versions from better 
manuscripts than had been before employed, in his ‘ Rise and Progress of the Eng¬ 
lish Commonwealth,’ Proofs and Illustrations, lxxxviii.-civ., has advanced some 
reasons for believing that these laws of the Conqueror were most probably originally 
written in Latin, which was the language in which legal documents were commonly 
drawn up in England for some ages after this date. The common statement that 
William attempted to abolish the English tongue and to substitute the French, 
whether in the courts of law or in the ordinary intercourse of life, rests upon no 
good authority, and is irreconcilable with well-ascertained facts. 

The wife of William the Conqueror was Matilda, daughter of Baldwin V., Earl of 
Flanders, surnamed the Gentle He married her before he acquired the crown of 
England/ and she died 2 nd November, 1083. Tneir children were, Robert, whom 
his father called Gambaron (Roundlegs) and Courthose (Shorthose), who died a 
prisoner in the castle of Cardiff in 1134 ; Richard, who was gored to death by a 
stag in the New Forest ; William, by whom he was succeeded on the English 
throne ; Henry, who succeeded William ; Cecilia, who became abbess of the mo¬ 
nastery’of the Holy Trinity at Caen, and died there 13th July, 1126 ; Constance, 
who was married to Alan, Earl of Bretagne and Richmond, but died without issue; 
Adeliza, who died young before the Conquest; Adela, who married Stephen, Earl 
of Blois, by whom she became the mother of Stephen, king of England, and who _ 
afterwards took the veil, and died in the nunnery of Mareigny in France about 
j 137 • Gundred, who married William de Warrennc, Earl of Surrey, and died in 
childbed at Castleacre in Norfolk, 27th May, 1085; and Agatha, who was con¬ 
tracted to Alphonso, king of Leon and Castile, but died before her mairiage. He 
had also a natural son, William de Peveril, by Maud, daughter of Ingelric, a Saxon 
nobleman, who afterwards married Ranulph de Peveril. 


43 .—WILLIAM RUFUS. 


Thierry. 


William Rufus, on his road to England, had been apprised of his father’s death 
at the port of Wissant, near Calais. He hastened to Winchester, where the royal 
treasure was deposited, and gaining over William de Pont-de-l’Arche, tne keeper of 
the treasury, by his promises, he got possession of the bags. He had it carefully 











158 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY. 

weighed, and an inventory taken; it was found to consist of sixty thousand pounds 
of fine silver, besides a quantity of gold and precious stones. He then assembled 
all the Norman barons then in England, announced to them the death of the Con¬ 
queror, was chosen king, and crowned by Archbishop Lanfranc, in Winchester 
Cathedral, whilst the barons remaining in Normandy were deliberating on the suc¬ 
cession. His first act of royal authority, was to imprison anew the Saxons Ulfnoth, 
Morkar, and Siward Beorn, whom his father had liberated ; next he drew from the 
treasury a large quantity of gold and silver, which he placed in the hands of Otho, 
the goldsmith, with orders to make it into ornaments for the tomb of him, whom 
he had forsaken on his death-bed. The name of the goldsmith, Otho, merits a 
place in this history, for the territorial register of the Conquest, mentions him as 
one of the great newly-created proprietors. Perhaps he had been the banker of the 
invasion, and had advanced part of the cost or mortgage of English estates ; this is 
not unlikely, for the goldsmiths of the middle ages were also bankers, or, perhaps, 
he had merely entered into commercial speculations upon the domains acquired by 
the lance and the sword, and given gold in exchange for their estates to the roving 
men-at-arms—a class common to that age. 

A kind of literary competition now sprang up between the Latin versifiers of Eng¬ 
land and Normandy, in the composition of the epitaph that was to be engraved on 
the tomb of the late king ; and Thomas, Archbishop of York, carried off the palm. 
Several pieces of verse and prose in praise of the Conqueror, have been handed 
down to us, and among the eulogies bestowed on him by the clerks and literary 
men of the age, there are some exceedingly curious : “ English nation,” exclaims 
one of them, “ why hast thou disturbed the repose of this prince, who was the 
friend of virtue ?” “ Oh England,” says another, “thou would’st have loved, thou 

would have esteemed him most highly, but for thy folly and thy malice.” “ His 
rule was pacific,” says a third, “ and his soul benevolent.” None of the viva voce 
epitaphs and panegyrics bestowed on him by the conquered nation remain to us, 
unless we regard as a sample of the popular exclamations called forth by the death 
of the foreign tyrant, these lines of an English poet of the thirteenth century : 

“ The days of King William were days of suffering, and many thought his life too 
long.” 

The Norman barons, who had not concurred in the election of William Rufus, 
returned to England, enraged at his having become king without their consent ; 
they resolved to depose him, and to place on the throne in his stead his eldest 
brother, Robert, Duke of Normandy. At the head of this party figured Odo of 
Bayeux, the brother of the Conqueror, who had just been released from prison, and 
many rich Normans, or Frenchmen of England, as the Saxon chronicle expresses it. 
The Red King, (so the historians of that time name him), seeing that his country¬ 
men conspired against him, called to his aid his subjects of the English race, in¬ 
ducing them to support his cause, by holding out to them hopes of thereby obtain¬ 
ing relief from their burdens. He assembled around him several of those who, in 
memory of their past power were still regarded by the Anglo-Saxon nation as their 
natural chiefs ; he promised them the best laws that they could choose, the best 
that had ever been observed in the country ; he restored to them the right of 
bearing arms, and the enjoyment of the forests. He put a stop to the levying of 
the poll-tax and all the other odious taxes ; but all this did not last long, say the 
contemporary annals. 

Influenced by these concessions, which lasted a few days, and, perhaps, also by 
a secret desire to fight the Normans, the Saxon chiefs agreed to embrace the cause 
of the king, and promulgated in their name, and in his, the ancient proclamation 
of war, which had formerly rallied around them every Englishman capable of bear- 




THIERRY.] 


WILLIAM RUFUS. 


159 

ing arms. “ Let him who is worth anything, either in the towns, or out of the 
towns, leave his house and come.” Thirty thousand Saxons spontaneously repaired 
to the place assigned, received arms, and enrolled themselves under the king’s 
banner. They were nearly all on foot ; William led them in great haste, with his 
cavalry, composed of Normans, towards the maritime town of Rochester, where 
Bishop Odo, and the other chiefs of the opposite party had fortified themselves, 
awaiting the arrival of their candidate, Duke Robert, to march upon Canterbury and 
London. 

It seems that the Saxons in the royal army showed great spirit at the siege of 
Rochester. The besieged, hard pressed, soon demanded to capitulate, on condition 
of their recognizing William as king, and retaining under him their lands and 
honours. William at first refused this ; but the Normans of his army, not enter¬ 
ing with the same zeal as the Saxons, into this, which was to them a civil war, and 
not wishing to reduce their fellow-countrymen and relatives to the last extremity, 
thought the king too inveterate against the defenders of Rochester. They strove 
to appease him. “We, who have assisted thee in danger,” they said to him, “we 
implore thee to spare our countrymen, our kinsmen, -who are also thine, and who 
aided thy father in conquering England.” The king relented, and at length granted 
the besieged free exit from the town, with their arms and horses. Bishop Odo 
attempted further to stipulate, that the military music of the king should not play 
in token of triumph at the evacuation of the garrison ; but William angrily re¬ 
fused, exclaiming that he would not make this concession for a thousand marks of 
gold. The Normans of Robert’s party quitted the town which they had been un¬ 
able to defend, with lowered ensigns, and to the sound of the king’s trumpets. At 
this moment loud clamours arose from amidst the English of the royal army. 
“ Bring ropes,” they cried, “ let us hang this traitor of a bishop, with all his ac¬ 
complices. Oh king ! why dost thou thus allow him to retire in safety ? He is not 
worthy to live ! the crafty villain! the assassin ! the murderer of so many thousands 
of men! ” 

At the sound of these imprecations, the priest who had blessed the Norman army 
at the battle of Hastings, left England, never to return. The war between the 
Normans lasted some time longer ; but this family quarrel subsided little by little, 
and ended in a treaty between the two parties and the two brothers. The domains 
that the friends of Robert had lost in England, for having embraced his cause, were 
restored to them, and Robert himself abandoned his claims to the throne on re¬ 
ceiving some landed estates. It was agreed between the two parties that the king, 
if he survived the duke, should have the duchy of Normandy, and that, in the con¬ 
trary case, the duke should have the kingdom of England ; twelve men on the side 
of the king, and twelve on that of the duke confirmed this treaty by oath. Thus 
terminated the Norman civil war, and at the same time the alliance which it had 
occasioned between the English and the king. The concessions that the latter had 
made were all revoked, his promises belied, and the Saxons returned to their former 
state of subjection and oppression. 





ICO 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C. KNIGHT. 


44 .—THE CASTLES OF THE NORMAN KINGS. 
From 1 Old England.’ 


C. Knight. 


There are few prospects in England more remarkable, and, in a certain degree, 
more magnificent, than that which is presented on the approach to Rochester from 
the road to London. The highest point on the road from Milton is Gadshill, of 
“ men-in-buckram ” notoriety. Here the road begins gradually to descend to the 
valley of the Medway ; sometimes, indeed, rising again over little eminences, which 
in the hop season are more beautifully clothed than are “ the vine-covered hills and 
gay regions of France,” but still descending, and sometimes precipitously, to a valley 
whose depth we cannot see, but which we perceive from the opposite hills has a 
range of several miles. At a turn of the road we catch a glimpse of the narrow 
Medway on the south; then to the north we see a broader stream where large dark 
masses, “ our wooden walls,” seem to sleep on the sparkling water. At last a town 
presents itself right before us to the east, with a paltry tower which they tell us is that 
of the Cathedral. Close by that tower rises up a gigantic square building, whose 
enormous proportions proclaim that it is no modern architectural toy. This is the 
great keep of Rochester Castle, called Gundulph’s Tower, and there it has stood 
for eight centuries, defying siege after siege, resisting even what is more difficult to 
resist than fire or storm, the cupidity of modern possessors. Rochester Castle is, 
like the hills around it, indestructible by man in the regular course of his opera¬ 
tions. It might be blown up, by modern science ; but when the ordinary workman 
has assailed it with his shovel and mattock, his iron breaks upon the flinty con¬ 
crete ; there is nothing more to be got out of it by avarice,—so e’en let it endure. 
And worthy is this old tower to endure. A man may sit alone in the gallery which 
runs round the tower, and, looking either within the walls or without the walls, 
have profitable meditations. He need not go back to the days of Julius Csesar for 
the origin of this castle, as some have written, nor even to those of Egbert, King of 
Kent, who “ gave certain lands within the walls of Rochester Castle to Eardulf, then 
Bishop of that see.” It is sufficient to believe with old Lambarde, “ that Odo (the 
bastard brother to King William the Conqueror), which was at the first Bishop of 
Bayeux in Normandy, and then afterward advanced to the office of the Chief Justice 
of England, and to the honour of the Earldom of Kent, was either the first author 
or the best benefactor to that which now standeth in sight.” Odo rebelled against 
William II., and was driven from his stronghold and from the realm. The history 
of the Castle from his time becomes more distinct:—“ After this the Castle was 
much amended by Gundulphus, the Bishop : who (in consideration of a manor 
given to his see by King William Rufus) bestowed threescore pounds in building 
that great tower which yet standeth. And from that time this Castle continued (as 
I judge) in the possession of the Prince, until King Henry the First, by the advice 
of his barons, granted to William, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and his succes¬ 
sors, the custody, and office of Constable over the same, with free liberty to build 
a tower for himself, in any part thereof, at his pleasure. By means of which cost 
done upon it at that time, the castle at Rochester was much in the eye of such as 
were the authors of troubles following within the realm, so that from time to time 
it had a part (almost) in every tragedy.” Lambarde, who writes this, tells us truly 
that in the time of the Conqueror “ many castles were raised to keep the people in 
awe.” Such kingly strongholds of oppression were like the “pleasant vices” of 
common men ; they became “ instruments to scourge ” their makers. Thus, Odo 
held Rochester Castle against Rufus. The barons successfully maintained it against 
John. Simon de Montfort carried his victorious arms against its walls, which were 




C. KNIGHT.] THE CASTLES OF THE NORMAN KINGS. 161 

defended by the Constable of Henry III. These were some of the tragedies in 
which Eochester Castle had a part. But the remains of this building show that 
its occupiers were not wholly engrossed by feuds and by fighting. The splendid 
columns, the sculptured arches, of its chief apartments proclaim that it was the 
abode of rude magnificence ; and that high festivals, with luxurious feastings, might 
be well celebrated within these massive walls. This tower, each side of which at 
the base is seventy feet long, whilst its height is one hundred and twelve feet, has 
attached to its east angle a smaller tower (probably for domestics), between seventy 
and eighty feet in height. A partition wall runs up the middle of the larger tower; 
and the height was divided into four stories. The joists and flooring-boards have 
been torn from the walls, but we see the holes where the timbers were inserted, 
and spacious fireplaces still remain. Every floor was served with water by a well, 
which was carried up through the central partition. This division of the central 
tower allowed magnificent dimensions to the rooms, which were forty-six feet in 
length by twenty-one in breadth. The height of those in the third story is thirty- 
two feet ; and here are those splendid columns, with their ornamented arches, which 
show us that the builders of these gloomy fortresses had notions of princely mag¬ 
nificence, and a feeling for the beauty of art, which might have done something 
towards softening the fierceness of their warrior lives, and have taught them to 
wear their weeds of peace with dignity and grace. Thomas Warton has described, 
in the true spirit of romantic poetry, such a scene as might often have lighted up 
the dark walls of Eochester Castle:— 

“ Stately the feast, and high the cheer ; 

Girt with many an armed peer, 

And canopied with golden pall, 

Amid Cilgarran’s castle hall, 

Sublime in formidable state, 

And warlike splendour, Henry sate, 

Prepar’d to stain the briny flood 
Of Shannon’s lakes with rebel blood. 

Illumining the vaulted roof, 

A thousand torches flam’d aloof: 

From massy cups with golden gleam, 

Sparkled the red metheglin’s stream; 

To grace the gorgeous festival, 

Along the lofty window’d hall 
The storied tapestry was hung: 

With minstrelsy the rafters rung 
Of harps, that with reflected light 
From the proud gallery glitter’d bright.” 

Fenced around with barbacan and bastion on the land side, and girded by high 
walls towards the river, the legal and baronial occupiers of Eochester Castle sat in 
safety, whether dispensing their rude justice to trembling serfs, or quaffing the red 
wine amidst their knightly retainers. Even Simon deMontfort, a man of wondious 
energy, could make little impression upon these strong walls. But the invention 
of gunpowder changed the course of human affairs. The monk who compounded 
sulphur, saltpetre, and charcoal, in their just proportions, made Eochester Castle 

what it is now. . - , 

Gundulphus the bishop, the builder or the restorer, we know not which, o tne 

great keep at Eochester, was the architect of the most remarkable building of t e 
Tower of London. Stow tells us, “ I find in a fair register-book of the acts of the 





162 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [C. KNIGHT. 

Bishops of Rochester, set down by Edmund of Hadenham, that William I., surnamed 
the Conqueror, builded the Tower of London, to wit, the great white and square 
tower there, about the year of Christ 1078, appointing Gundulph, then Bishop of 
Rochester, to be principal surveyor and overseer of that work, who was for that 
time lodged in the house of Edmere, a burgess of London.” Speaking of this 
passage of Stow, the editor of ‘London’ says, “We see the busy Bishop (it was he 
who built the great keep at Rochester) coming daily from his lodgings at the honest 
burgess’s to erect something stronger and mightier than the fortresses of the 
Saxons. What he found in ruins, and what he made ruinous, who can tell ? There 
might have been walls and bulwarks thrown down by the ebbing and llowing of the 
tide. There might have been, dilapidated or entire, some citadel more ancient than 
the defences of the people the Normans conquered, belonging to the age when the 
great lords of the world left every where some marks upon the earth’s surface of 
their pride and their power. That Gundulph did not create this fortress is toler¬ 
ably clear. What he built, and what he destroyed, must still, to a certain extent, 
be a matter of conjecture.” And this is precisely the case with the great tower at 
Rochester. The keep at Rochester and the White Tower at London have a re¬ 
markable resemblance in their external appearances. But we have no absolute 
certainty that either was the work of the skilful Bishop, who, with that practical 
mastery of science and art which so honourably distinguished many of the ecclesi¬ 
astics of his age, was set by his sovereign at both places to some great business of 
construction or repair. We must be content to leave the matter in the keeping of 
those who can pronounce authoritatively where records and traditions fail, taking 
honest Lambarde for our guide, who says, “ Seeing that by the injury of the ages 
between the monuments of the first beginning of this place and of innumerable 
such, other be not come to our hands, I had rather in such cases use honest silence 
than rash speech.” 

The ruined walls of the Castle of Hastings, and the remains of the pretty chapel 
within those walls, are familiar objects to the visitors of the most beautiful of our 
watering-places. The situation of this Castle is singularly noble. It was here, 
according to Eadmer, that almost all the bishops and nobles of England were 
assembled in the year 1090, to pay personal homage to Kang William II. before 
his departure for Normandy. Grose has given a pretty accurate description of this 
castle, which we abridge with slight alteration. What remains of the castle ap¬ 
proaches nearest in shape to two sides of an oblique spherical triangle, having the 
points rounded off. The base, or south side next the sea, completing the triangle, 
is formed by a perpendicular craggy cliff about four hundred feet in length, upon 
which are no vestiges of walls or other fortification. The east side is made by a 
plain wall measuring near three hundred feet, without tower or defence of any 
kind. The adjoining side, which faces the north-west, is about four hundred feet 
long. The area included is about an acre and one-fifth. The walls, nowhere entire, 
are about eight feet thick. The gateway, now demolished, was on the north side, 
near the northernmost angle. Not far from it, to the west, are the remains of a 
small tower enclosing a circular flight of stairs; and still farther westward, a sally¬ 
port and the ruins of another tower. On the east side, at the distance of about 
one hundred feet, ran a ditch, one hundred feet in breadth at the top, and sixty 
feet deep ; but both the ditch, and the interval between it and the wall, seem to 
have gradually narrowed as they approached the gate, under which they terminated. 
On the north-west side there was another ditch of the same breadth, commencing 
at the cliff opposite to the westernmost angle, and bearing away almost due north, 
leaving a level intermediate space, which, opposite to the sally-port, was one hun¬ 
dred and eighty feet in breadth. 




C. KNIGHT.] THE CASTLES OF THE NORMAN KINGS. 163 

The Castle of Carlisle was founded by William Rufus. He was the restorer of 
the city, after it had remained for two centuries in ruins through the Danish 
ravages. The Red King was a real benefactor to the people at this northern ex¬ 
tremity of his kingdom. He first placed here a colony of Flemings, an industrious 
and skilful race, and then encouraged an immigration of husbandmen from the 
south, to instruct the poor and ignorant inhabitants in the arts of agriculture. We 
must not consider that these Norman kings were all tyrants. 

The Castle of Alnwick, the noble seat of the Percies, was a place of strength 
soon after the Norman Conquest. In the reign of Rufus it was besieged by Mal¬ 
colm the Third, of Scotland, who here lost his life, as did his son Prince Edward. 
Before the Norman Conquest the castle and barony of Alnwick belonged to Gilbert 
Tyson, who was slain fighting against the invader, by the side of his Saxon king. 
The Conqueror gave the granddaughter of Gilbert in marriage to Ivo de Yescy, one 
of bis Norman followers; and the Lords de Yescy enjoyed the fair possessions down 
to the time of Edward I. The Castle of Bamborough, in Northumberland, carries 
us back into a remoter antiquity. It was the palace, according to the monkish 
historians, of the kings of Northumberland, and built by king Ida, who began his 
reign about 559. Roger Hovenden, who wrote in 1192, describes it, under the 
name of Bebba, as “ a very strong city.” Rufus blockaded the castle in 1085, 

I when it was in the possession of Robert de Mowbray, earl of Northumberland. 
The keep of Bamborough is very similar in its appearance to the keeps of the Tower 
of London, of Rochester, and of Dover. It is built of remarkably small stones ; 
the walls are eleven feet thick on one side, and nine feet on three sides. This 
castle, situated upon an almost perpendicular rock, close to the sea, which rises 
about one hundred and fifty feet above low water mark, had originally no intend 
appliances of luxury or even of comfort. Grose says, “ Here were no chimneys. 
The only fire-place in it was a grate in the middle of a large room, supposed to 
have been the guard-room, where some stones in the middle of the floor are burned 
red. The floor was all of stone, supported by arches. This room had a window 
f in it, near the top, three feet square, possibly intended to let out the smoke ; all 
5 the other rooms were lighted only by slits or chinks in the wall, six inches broad, 
i, except in the gables of the roof, each of which had a window one foot broad. One 
! of the most remarkable objects in this ancient castle is a draw-well, which was dis- 
| covered about seventy years ago, upon cleaning out the sand and rubbish of a 

1 vaulted cellar or dungeon. It is a hundred and forty-five feet deep, and is cut 
through the solid basaltic rock into the sandstone below. When we look at the 
history of this castle, from the time when it was assaulted by Penda, the Pagan _ 
king of the Mercians, its plunder by the Danes, its siege by Rufus,. its assault by 
the Yorkists in 1463, and so onward through seven centuries of civil strife, it is 
consoling to reflect upon the uses to which this stronghold is now applied. It was 
bought with the property attached to it by Nathaniel Lord Crewe, bishop of Dui- 
ham, and bequeathed by him to charitable purposes in 1/20. The old fortiess has 
now been completely repaired. Its gloomy rooms, through whose loop-holes the 
sun could scarcely penetrate, have been converted into schools. Bojs are heie daily 
taught, and twenty poor girls are lodged, clothed, and educated till fit foi seivice. 
The towers, whence the warder once looked out in constant watchfulness against 
an enemy’s approach, are now changed into signal stations, to vain the sailoi 
against that dangerous cluster of rocks called the Fern Islands ; and signas aie 
also arranged for announcing when a vessel is in distress to the fishermen o o y 
Island. Life-boats are here kept, and shelter is offered for any reasonable period 
to such as may be shipwrecked on this dreary coast. The estates thus devoted to 
purposes of charity now yield a magnificent income of more than eight thousand a 






164 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


KNIGHT. 


year. Not only are the poor taught, but the sick are relieved in this hospitable 
fortress. In the infirmary, to which part of the building is applied, the wants of 
a thousand persons are annually administered to. Much is still left out of these 
large funds ; and the residue is devoted to the augmentation of small benefices, to 
the building and enlarging of churches, to the foundation and support of schools, 
and to exhibitions for young men going to the Universities. When William Rufus 
besieged this rock of Bamborough, Robert de Mowbray had a steward within the 
walls, who would have defended it to the death, had not the king brought out the 
earl his master, who was a prisoner, with a threat that his eyes should be put out 
unless the castle surrendered. This was a faithful steward. Lord Crewe had an 
equally fatthful steward, after a different fashion, in Dr. Sharpe, Archdeacon of 
Northumberland, who devised the various means of best applying this noble be¬ 
quest, and resided on this stormy rock to see that those means were properly ad¬ 
ministered. 


45—THE DEATH OF THE RED KING. 

Thierry. 

The Saxons, persecuted for transgressions against the laws of the chase, even 
more vigorously by the Red King, than by his father, had no other means of 
revenge than by calling him, in derision the keeper of the woods and of the deer, and 
by spreading sinister reports about these forests, into which no man. of the English 
race was allowed to enter, armed, under pain of death. They said that the devil, 
under all sorts of horrible forms, had there appeared to the Normans, and had told 
them of the dreadful fate that he had in reserve for the King and his councillors. 
This popular superstition was strengthened by the singular chance which rendered 
hunting in the forests of England, and above all in the New Forest, so fatal to the 
Conqueror’s race. In the year 1081, Richard, the eldest son of William the bastard, 
had there mortally wounded himself; in the month of May of the year 1100, 
Richard, the son of Duke Robert, and nephew of the Red King, was killed there by 
an arrow imprudently drawn, and, by a most curious coincidence, the king perished 
there also, in the same manner, in the month of July of the same year. 

On the morning of the last day of his life, he had a great feast with his friends 
in Winchester Castle, after which he prepared for the proposed chace. Whilst he 
was going on his horse and joking with his guests, a workman presented him with 
six new arrows ; he examined them, praised the workmanship, took four for him¬ 
self, and gave the other two to Walter Tyrrel, saving, “ Good marksmen should have 
good arms.” Walter Tyrrel was a Frenchman, who had great possessions in the 
county of Poix and in Ponthieu ; he was the king’s most familiar friend, and assi¬ 
duous attendant. At the moment of starting, there entered a monk, from the 
convent of St. Peter at Gloucester, who brought William despatches from his abbot. 
This abbot, a Norman by birth, named Serlon, sent word to the king, in some 
anxiety, that one of his monks, (probably of the English race), had had in his sleep 
a vision of bad omen ; that he had seen Jesus Christ seated on a throne, and at 
his feet a woman supplicating him in these words ; “ Saviour of the human race, 
look down with pity on thy people groaning under the yoke of William.” On 
hearing this message the king laughed loudly : “ Do they take me for an Englishman,” 
he said, “ with their dreams 1 Do they fancy that I am one of those fools who 
abandon their course and their business because an old woman dreams or sneezes '( 
Come, Walter de Poix, to horse !” 

Henry, the king’s brother, William de Breteuil, and several other nobles accom¬ 
panied him to the forest; the hunters dispersed ; but Walter Tyrrel remained 





THIERRY.] THE DEATH OF THE RED KING. 106 

beside him, and their dogs hunted together. They had taken up their station, 
opposite one another, each with his arrow in his cross-bow, and his finger on the 
trigger, when a large stag, tracked by the beaters, advanced between the King 
and his friend. William drew, but, his bowstring breaking, the arrow did not fly, 
and the stag, confused by the noise, stood still, looking around him, The King 
signed to his companion to shoot, but the latter took no notice, either not seeing 
the stag, or not understanding the signs : William then impatiently cried aloud : 
‘‘Shoot, Walter, shoot, in the devil’s name !” And at the same instant an arrow, 
either that of Walter, or some other, struck him in the breast ; he fell without 
uttering a word, and expired. Walter Tyrrel ran to him ; but, finding he had ceased 
to breathe, he re-mounted his horse, galloped the coast, crossed over to Normandy, 
and from thence to the French territory. 

On the first rumour of the king’s death, all who attended the hunt left the forest 
in haste to see after their interest. His brother Henry made for Winchester and 
the royal treasure, and the corpse of Willian Rufus remained on the ground, aban¬ 
doned like that of the Conqueror had been. Some charcoal-burners, who found it, 
pierced by the arrow, put it on their cart, wrapped in old linen, through which the 
blood dropped all along the road. Thus were the remains of the second Norman 
king conveyed to Winchester, where Henry had already arrived, and imperiously 
demanded the keys of the royal treasure. Whilst the keepers were hesitating, 
William de Breteuil arrived in breathless haste from the forest, to oppose this 
demand. “ Thou and I,” he said to Henry, “ ought loyally to keep the faith that 
we promised to thy brother, Duke Robert ; he has received our oath of homage ; 
and, absent or present, he has the right.” A violent quarrel ensued ; Henry drew 
his sword, and soon, with the help of the assembled crowd, took possession of the 
royal treasure and the regalia. 


4G.—THE NEW FOREST. C. Knight. 

From 1 Old England.’ 

The Saxon annalist quaintly writes of the first William, “ so much he loved the 
high deer as if he had been their father ; he made laws that whosoever should slay 
hart or hind, him man should blind.” The depopulation and misery occasioned by 
the formation of the New Forest have been perhaps somewhat over-stated. A 
forest undoubtedly existed in this district in the Saxon times ; the Conqueror en¬ 
larged its circuit and gave it a fresh name. But even William of Jumieges, chap¬ 
lain to the Conqueror, admits the devastation, in his notice of the deaths of - 
William Rufus and his brother Richard in this Forest :—“ There were many who 
held that the two sons of William the king perished by the judgment of God in 
these woods, since for the extension of the forest he had destroyed many towns 
and churches within its circuit.” It is this circumstantial statement and popular 
belief which inspired Mr. William Stewart Rose’s spirited little poem of the Red 
King 

“ Now fast heside the pathway stood 
A ruin’d village, shagg’d with wood, 

A melancholy place; 

The ruthless Conqueror cast down 
(Wo worth the deedj that little town 
To lengthen out his cliace. 

Amongst the fragments of the church, 

A raven there had found a perch,— 







166 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HLSTORY. 


[C. KNIGHT. 


She flicker’d with her wing; 

She stirr’d not, she, for voice or shout, 

She moved not for that revel rout, 

But croak’d upon the king.” 

But Mr. Bose does not rest the machinery oi his ballad upon tradition alone, 01 the 
assertions of prejudiced chroniclers. Adverting to the. disbelief of Voltaiie in the 
early history of the New Forest, he points out, in liis notes to the poem, what 
Voltaire did not know, that ‘Domesday-Book’ establishes the fact that many 
thousand acres were afforested after the time of Edward the Confessor. The testi¬ 
mony which Mr. Rose himself supplied from his local knowledge is exceedingly 
curious. “ The idea that no vestiges of ancient buildings yet exist in the New 
Forest, is utterly unfounded, though the fact is certainly little known, and almost ■ 
confined to the small circle of keepers and ancient inhabitants. In m.9,ny spots, j 
though no ruins are visible above ground, either the enceinte of erections is to be 
traced, by the elevation of the earth, or fragments of building-materials have been 
discovered on turning up the surface. The names also of those- places would almost, 
if other evidence were wanting, substantiate the general fact, and even the nature 

of each individual edifice.The total rasurc of buildings, and the scanty re- I 

mains of materials under the surface, appear at first a singular circumstance. But 
it is to be observed, that the mansions, and even the churches of the Anglo-Saxons, 
were built of the slightest materials, frequently of wood ; and that of all countries 
a forest is the least favourable to the preservation of ruins. As they are the pro¬ 
perty of the crown, neither the pride nor interest of individuals is concerned in 

their preservation.This absence of remains of ruins above the suiface need 

not, therefore, lead us to despair of further discoveiies, and these aie, perhaps, yet 
designated by the names of places. May we not consider the termination of hcl'm 
and toil) yet annexed to some woodlands, as evidence of the foimei existence of 
hamlets and towns'?” The historical truth, as it appears to us, may be collected 
from these interesting notices of Mr. Bose’s local researches. The remains of 
buildings are few, and scattered over a considerable district. The names which 
still exist afford the best indication that the abodes of men were formerly more 
numerous. The truth lies between the sceptism of Voltaire as to any depopula¬ 
tion having taken place, and the poetical exaggeration of Pope, in his £ Windsor 
Forest: ’— 

« The fields are ravished from industrious swains, 

From men their cities, and from gods their fanes : 

The levelled towns with weeds lie covered o’er; 

The hollow winds through naked temples roar.” 

The fact is, that from the very nature of the soil no large population could have 
been here supported in the days of imperfect agriculture. The lower lands are for 
the most part marshy ; the higher ridges are sterile sand, Gilpin has sensibly 
pointed this out in his book on ‘ Forest Scenery—“ How could William have 
spread such depopulation in a country which, from the nature of it, must have been 
from the first very thinly inhabited ? The ancient Ytene was undoubtedly a woody 
tract long before the times of William. Voltaire’s idea, therefore, of planting a 
forest is absurd, and is founded on a total ignorance of the country. He took his 
ideas merely from a French forest, which is artificially planted, and laid out in vistas 
and alleys. It is probable that William rather opened his chaces by cutting down 
wood, than that he had occasion to plant more. Besides, though the internal strata 
of the soil of New Forest are admirably adapted to produce timber, yet the surface 
of it is in general poor, and could never have admitted, even if the times had 




THE HEW FOREST. 


1G7 


C. KNIGHT.'] 

allowed, any high degree of cultivation.” But, whatever view we take of this his¬ 
torical question, the scenery of the New Forest is indissolubly associated with the 
memory of the two first Norman hunter-kings. There is probably no place in Eng¬ 
land which in its general aspect appears for centuries to have undergone so little 
change. The very people are unchanged. After walking in a summer afternoon 
for several miles amongst thick glades, guided only by the course of the declining 
sun, 

“ Over hill, over dale, 

Thorough bush, thorough briar,” 

we came, in the low ground between Beaulieu and Denny Lodge, upon two peasants 
gathering a miserable crop of rowan. To our questions as to the proper path, they 
gave a grin, which expressed as much cunning as idiotcy, and pointed to a course 
which led us directly to the edge of a bog. They were low of stature, and coarse 
in feature. The collar of the Saxon slave was not upon their necks, but they were 
the descendants of the slave, through a long line who had been here toiling in 
hopeless ignorance for seven centuries. Their mental chains have never been 
loosened. A mile or two farther we encountered a tall and erect man, in a peculiar 
costume, half peasant, half huntsman. He had the frank manners of one of nature’s 
gentlemen, and insisted upon going with us a part of the way which we sought to 
Lyndhurst. His family, too, had been settled here, time out of mind. He was the 
descendant of the Norman huntsman, who had been trusted and encouraged, whilst 
the Saxon churl was feared and oppressed. There is a lesson still to be taught by 
the condition of the two races in the primitive wilds of the New Forest. 

But we are digressing from our proper theme. In these thick coverts, we find 
not many trees, and especially oaks, of that enormous size which indicates the 
growth of centuries. The forest has been neglected. Trees of every variety, with 
underwood in proportion, have oppressed each the other’s luxuriance. Now and 
then a vigorous tree has shot up above its neighbours ; but the general aspect is 
that of continuous wood, of very slow and stunted growth, with occasional ranges 
of low wet land almost wholly devoid of wood. There are many spots, undoubtedly, 
of what we call picturesque beauty ; but the primitive solitariness of the place is 
its great charm. We are speaking, of course, of those parts which must be visited 
by a pedestrian ; for the high roads necessarily lead through the most cultivated 
lands, passing through a few villages which have nothing of the air of belonging to 
so wild and primitive a region. Lyndhurst, the prettiest of towns, is the capital of 
the Forest. Here its courts, with their peculiar jurisdiction, are held in a hall of 
no great antiquity ; but in that hall hangs the stirrup which tradition, from time 
immemorial, asserts was attached to the saddle from which William Rufus fell, 
when struck by the glancing arrow of Walter Tyrell. There is a circumstance even 
more remarkably associated with tradition, to be found in the little village of Mine- 
sted. It is recorded that the man who picked up the body of the Red king was 
named Purkess ; that he was a charcoal-burner ; and that he conveyed the body 
to Winchester in the cart which he employed in his trade. Over the door of a little 
shop in that village we saw the name of Purkess in 1 843—a veritable relic of the 
old times. Mr. Rose has recorded the fact in prose and verse, of the charcoal- 
burner’s descendants still living in this spot, and still possessing one horse and cart, 
and no more :— 


“ A Minestead churl, whose wonted trade 
Was burning charcoal in the glade, 
Outstretch’d amid the gorse 






168 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C. KNIGHT?. 

Tlie monarch found ; and in his wain 
He raised, and to St. Swithin’s fane 
Convey’d the bleeding corse. 

And still, so runs our forest creed, 

Flourish the pious woodman’s seed 
Even the selfsame spot: 

One horse and cart their little store, 

Like their forefather’s, neither more 
Nor less the children’s lot. 


And still, in merry Lyndhurst hall, 
Red William’s stirrup decks the wall; 

Who lists, the sight may see; 

And a fair stone, in green Malwood, 
Informs the traveller where stood 
The memorable tree.” 


The “ fair stone,” which was erected by Lord Delaware in 1745, is now put into 
an iron case, of supreme ugliness ; and w T e are informed as follows ;—“ This stone 
having been much mutilated, and the inscriptions on each of its three sides de¬ 
faced, this more durable memorial, with the original inscriptions, was erected in the 
year 1841, by William Sturges Bourne, Warden.” Another century will see whe¬ 
ther this boast of durability will be of any account. In the time of Leland, there 
was a chapel built on the spot. It would be a wise act of the Crown, to whom this 
land belongs, to found a school here—a better w T ay of continuing a record than 
Lord Delaware’s stone, or Mr. Sturges Bourne’s iron. The history of their country, 
its constitution, it privileges—the duties and rights of Englishmen—things which 
are not taught to the children of our labouring millions—might worthily commence 
to be taught on the spot where the Norman tyrant fell, leaving successors who one 
by one came to the knowledge that the people were something not to be despised or 
neglected. The following is the inscription on the original stone ;— 


U 


u 


u 


Here stood the oak-tree on which the arrow, shot by Sir William Tyrrel, at a stag, glanced, 
and struck King William II., surnamed Rufus, on the breast; of which stroke he in¬ 
stantly died, on the second of August, liOO. 

King William II., surnamed Rufus, being slain, as before related, was laid in a cart be¬ 
longing to one Purkess, and drawn from hence to Winchester, and buried in the cathedral 
church of that city. 

That the spot where an event so memorable had happened might not hereafter be unknown, 
this stone was set up by John Lord Delaware, who had seen the tree growing in this 
place, anno 1745.” 


f 


47.—WALTER TYRREL AND WILLIAM RUFUS. 

Land or. 

Rufus. Tyrrel, spur onward ! we must not await 
The laggard lords : when they have heard the dogs, 

I warrant they will follow fast enough, 

Each for his haunch. Thy roan is mettlesome ; 

How the rogue sidles up to me, and claims 
Acquaintance with young Yorkshire ! not afraid 
Of wrinkling lip, nor ear laid down like grass, 

By summer thunder shower on Windsor mead. 


















LANDOR.] 


WALTER TYRREL AND "WILLIAM RUFUS. 


1C9 


Tyrrel. Behold, my liege ! hither they troop amain, 

Over yon gap. 

Rufus . Over my pales ? the dolts 

Have broken down my pales ! 

Tyrrel. Please you, my liege, 

Unless they had. they must have ridden round 
Eleven miles. 

Rufus. Why not have ridden round 
Eleven miles 1 or twenty, were there need. 

By our lady ! they shall be our carpenters 
And mend what they have marr’d. At any time 
I can make fifty lords ; but who can make 
As many head of deer, if mine escape ? 

And sure they will, unless they too are mad. 

Call me that bishop — him with hunting-cap 
Surcharged with cross, and scarlet above knee. 

Tyrrel {galloping forward.) Ho ! my lord bishop . 

Bishop. Who calls me. 

Tyrrel. Your slave. 

Bishop. Well said, if toned as well and timed as well. 
Who art thou 1 citizen or hind ? what wantest . 

Tyrrel. My lord ! your presence ; but before the king J 
Where it may grow more placid at its leisure. 

The morn is only streakt with red, my lord ! 

You beat her out and out: how prettily 
You wear your stockings over head and ears • 

Keep off the gorse and broom ! they soon catch re. 
Bishop. The king shall hear of this. I recognise 

Sir Walter Tyrrel. 

Tyrrel. And Sir Walter Tyrrel 

By the same token duly recognises 
The Church’s well-begotten son, well-fed, 

Well mounted, and all well, except well-spoken, 

The spiritual lord of Winchester. 

Bishop. Ay, by God’s grace ! pert losel! 

Tvrnl Pnck aloDg 

Lord bishop ! quicker ! catch fresh air ! we want it; 

We have had foul enough till dinner time. 

Bishop Varlet ! I may chastise this insolence. 

Tyrrd. I like those feathers ; but there crows no cock 
Without an answer. Though the noisest t noa 
Sings from the belfrey of snug Winchester, 

Yet he from Winchester hath stouter spurs. 

Bishop. God’s blood ! were I no bishop — 

Tyrrd. Then th ? own 

Bishop. Whip that hound aside 0 Christ 
The beast has paw’d my housings ! W. a a y 
For dirt! 

Tyrrel. The scent lies well ; pity no more 
The housings ; look, my lord ! here ro s 
Rufus. Which of you broke my palings doN 


\ 










170 


HALF-HOHRS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[LANDOR. 


Bishop. God knows, 

Most gracious sir. 

Rufus. No doubt be does ; but you, 

Bishop ! could surely teach us what God knows. 

Bide back and order some score handicrafts 
To fix them in their places. 

Bishop. The command 

Of our most gracious king shall be obeyed. [Riding off. 

Malisons on the atheist ! Who can tell 
Where are my squires and other men ? confused 
Among the servitors of temporal lords ! 

I must e’en turn again and hail that brute. 

Sir Walter ! good Sir Walter ! one half word ! 

[Tyrrel rides toivards him. 

Sir Walter ! may I task your courtesy 
To find me any of my followers ? 

Tyrrel. Willingly. 

Rufus. Stay with me ; I want thee, Tyrrel! 

What does the bishop boggle at 1 

Tyrrel. At nothing. 

He seeks his people, to retrieve the damage. 

Rufus. Where are the lords ? 

Tyrrel. Gone past your grace, bare headed, 

And falling in the rear. 

Rufus. Well, prick them on. 

I care but little for the chase to-day, 

Although the scent lies sweetly. To knock down 
My paling is vexatious. We must see 
Our great improvements in this forest; what 
Of roads blockt up, of hamlets swept away, 

Of lurking dens called cottages, and cells, 

And hermitages. Tyrrel ! thou did’st right 
And dutifully, to remove the house 
Of thy forefathers. ’Twas an odd request 
To leave the dovecote for the sake of those 
Flea-bitten blind old pigeons. There it stands ! 

But, in God’s name ! What mean these hives ? the bees 
May sting my dogs. 

Tyrrel. They hunt not in the summer. 

Rufus. They may torment my fawns. 

Tyrrel. Sir ! not unless 

Driven from their hives ; they like the flowers much better. 

Rufus. Flowers ! and leave flowers too ? 

Tyrrel. Only some half-wild, 

In tangled knots ; balm, clary, marjoram. 

Rufus. What lies beyond this close briar hedge, that smells 
Through the thick dew upon it, pleasantly ? 

Tyrrel. A poor low cottage : the dry marl-pit shields it, 

And, frail and unsupported like itself, 

Peace-breathing honeysuckles comfort it 
In its misfortunes. 

Rufus. I am fain to laugh 






LANDOR.] 


WALTER TYRREL AND WILLIAM RUFUS. 


At thy rank minstrelsy. A poor low cottage ! 

Only a poor low cottage ! where, 1 ween, 

A poor low maiden blesses Walter Tyrrel. 

Tyrrel. It may be so. 

Rufus. No ; it may not be so. 

Mv orders were that all should be removed ; 

And, out of special favour, special trust 
In thee, Sir Walter, I consign’d the care 
Into thy hands, of razing thy own house 
And those about it ; since thou hast another 
Fairer and newer, and more lands around. 

Tyrrel. Hall, chapel, chamber, cellar, turret, grange, 

Are level with the grass. 

Rufus. What negligence 

To leave the work then incomplete, when little 
Was there remaining ! Strip that roof, and start 
Thy petty game from cover. 

Tyrrel, 0 my liege ! 

Command not this ! 


Rufus. Make me no confidant 

Of thy base loves. 

Tyrrel. Nor you, my liege ! nor any : 

None such hath Walter Tyrrel. 

Rufus. Thou rt at bay ; 

Thou hast forgotten thy avowal, man ! 

Tyrrel. My father’s house is (like my father) gone : 
But in that house, and from that father s heart 
Mine grew into that likeness, and held thence 
Its rich possessions — God forgive my boast ! 

He bade me help the needy, raise the low—. 

Rufus. And stand against thy king ! 

Tyrrel. How many yokes 

Of oxen, from how many villages 
For miles around, brought I, at my own chaige, 

To bear away the rafters and the beams 
That were above my cradle at my biith, 

And rang when I was christened, to the carouse 
Of that glad father and his loyal friends ! 

Rufus. He kept good oheer, they tell me. 

Tyrrel. Yonder thatch 

Covers the worn-out woman at whose breast 

I hung, an infant. 

Rufus. Ay ! and none beside 1 

Tyrrel. Four sons have fallen in the wars. 

Rufus. Brave do § s ! 

Tyrrel. She hath none left. 

Rufus. No dau S Mer ? 

Tyrrel. One. 

Rufus. 1 thou S llt li 

Unkennel her. 

Tyrrel. Grace ! pity ! mercy on her ! 

Rufus. I will not have hot scents about my chase,. 











172 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[LANDOR 


Tyrrel. A virtuous daughter of a virtuous mother 
Deserves not this, my liege ! 

Rufus. Am I to learn 

What any subject at my hand deserves ! 

Tyrrel. Happy, who dares to teach it, and who can ! 

Rufus. And thou, forsooth ! 

Tyrrel. I have done my duty, sire ! 

Rufus. Not half: perform the rest, or bide my wrath. 

Tyrrel. What, break athwart my knee the staff of age ? 

Rufus. Question me, villain ! 

Tyrrel. Villain I am none. 

Rufus. Retort my words ! By all the saints ! thou diest, 

False traitor ! 

Tyrrel. Sire ! no private wrong, no word 

Spoken in angriness, no threat against 
My life or honour, urge me—. 

Rufus. Urge to what ? 

Dismountest ? 

Tyrrel. On my knees, as best beseems, 

I ask — not pardon, sire ! but spare, oh spare 
The child devoted, the deserted mother ! 

Rufus. Take her ; take both. 

Tyrrel. She loves her home ; her limbs 

Fail her ; her husband sleeps in that churchyard ; 

Her youngest child, born many years the last, 

Lies (not half-length) along the father’s coffin. 

Such separate love grows stronger in the stem 
(I have heard say) than others close together, 

And that, where pass these funerals, all life’s spring 
Vanishes from behind them, all the fruits 
Of riper age are shrivel’d, every sheaf 
Husky ; no gleaning left. She would die here, 

Where from her bed she looks on his ; no more 
Able to rise, poor little soul! than he. 

Rufus. Who would disturb them, child or father ? where 
Is the churchyard thou speakest of ? 

Tyrrel. Among 

Yon nettles : we have levell’d all the graves. 

Rufus. Right : or our horses might have stumbled on them. 

Tyrrel. Your grace oft spares the guilty ; spare the innocent ! 

Rufus. Up from the dew! thy voice is hoarse already. 

Tyrrel. Yet God hath heard it. It entreats again, 

Once more, once only ; spare this wretched house. 

Rufus. No, nor thee neither. 

Tyrrel. Speed me, God ! and judge 

0 thou! between the oppressor and opprest! 

[Tie 'pierces Rufus with an arrow 


SWIFT.] 


CHARACTER OF RUFUS- 


173 


48.—CHARACTER OE RUFUS. 


Swift. 


Ho was in stature somewhat below the usual size and b.g-bellied; but he was 
well and strongly knit. His hair was yellow or sandy, his face red, which got him 
the name of Rufus, his forehead flat; his eyes were spotted and appeared of diffe¬ 
rent colours ; he was apt to stutter in speaking, especially when he was angry ; he 
was "rigorous and active and very hardy to endure fatigues, which he owed to a good 
constitution of health and the frequent exercise of hunting ; m his dress he affected 
gaiety and expense, which having been first introduced by th« prince into his 
fourt and kingdom, grew in succeeding reigns an intolerable grievance. He also 
first brought fn among us the luxury and profusion of great tables. There was m 
him asTn all other men a mixture of virtues and vices and that in a pretty equal 
degree only the misfortune was that the latter although not more numerous, 
were vet much more prevalent than the former. For being entirely a man of plea¬ 
sure this made him sacrifice all his good qualities and gave him too many occa- 

"ri ° f db^g true't^his^word^n^'promfse^'he was^f'undoubted'per- 

ronalMlour, whereof the writers in those wls 

fie want skill and conduct in th = of war 

that of great despa Ch h ^ the euds of seC recy and counsel in a great 

happy temerity, does often h h 1 ea st expects it, as may 

commander by surprising and dauntog an ene y^ ^ 

appear by the greates ac 101 as we p as 0 f wit and humour upon occa- 

He was a man of sound natu al sense ho could not d f gest , par . 

Sion. There were several torctemthc ^ ^ ^ ^ age overrun with supe r- 

ticularly that of the saint other ’extreme as to bo censured for an atheist, 

stition, he went so far into' terrible dream which seemed to for- 

The day before h.s death. a “““Joeing told the matter turned it into a jest; 
bode him some misfoit , e jgf a m onk f or lucre sake ; and therefore 

^dT»r"o S to one hundred shillings, that he might not com¬ 
plain he had dreamt to n0 ' fi er derived from the temper of his body than 

His vices appear to hav for being of a sanguine complexion, wholly 

from any original depiav y > hig nature> fi e became engaged in great 

bent upon his pleasures P w ere perpetually oppressed with illegal 

expenses. To supply thes P J which arises from prodigality and 

taxes and exactions ; bu . h more rave nous and violent than the other, 

vice, as it ^ways needy >m (among whom Ralph, bishop of Dur- 

which put the king and h 1 pernicious methods of gratifying his extra- 

3SX&——*» —• Dd 

0t He is'generally toed t^to tove° ris'enfrom Ihetame foum 

common discourse and c am ^ expedient for men who cannot quit then- 

tain, being a point of ai t and 1 that might disturb them in the enjoy- 

?££**** or if “ wiU in - 

^^yeHhc^-e^sone^instance^liat^dght'show lnmJ.o have some sense ^of^eli^imi^as 

^ - * - • - ^ 







174 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


SWIFT, 


demanded why he would not offer ? The monk said he was poor, and besides 
would give nothing if he were ever so rich ; the king replied, then you are the 
fittest person to have it, and immediately gave it him. But this is perhaps 
with reason enough assigned more to caprice than conscience, for he was under 
the power of every humour and passion that possessed him for the present, which 
made him obstinate in his resolves and unsteady in the prosecution. 

He had one vice or folly that seemed rooted in his mind and of all others most 
unbefitting a prince ; this was a proud, disdainful manner, both in his words and 
gesture, and having already lost the love of his subjects by his avarice and oppres¬ 
sion, this finished-the work by bringing him into contempt and hatred among his 
servants, so that few among the worst of princes have had the luck to be so ill- 
beloved or so little lamented. 


49.— THE CRUSADES. IIume. 

After Mahomet had, by means of his pretended revelations, united the dispersed 
Arabians under one head, they issued forth from their deserts in great multitudes ; 
and being animated with zeal for their new religion, and supported by the vigour of 
their new government, they made deep impression on the eastern empire, which 
was far in the decline, with regard both to military discipline, and to civil policy. 
Jerusalem by its situation, became one of their most early conquests ; and the 
Christians had the mortification to see the holy sepulchre, and the other places, 
consecrated by the presence of their religious founder, fallen into the possession of 
infidels. But the Arabians or Saracens were so employed in military enterprises, by 
which they spread their empire in a few years from the banks of the Ganges to the 
Straits of Gibraltar, that they had no leisure for theological controversy : And 
though the Alcoran, the original monument of their faith, seems to contain some 
violent precepts, they were much less infected with the spirit of bigotry, and perse¬ 
cution than the indolent and speculative Greeks, who were continually refining on 
the several articles of their religious system. They gave little disturbance to those 
zealous pilgrims, who daily flocked to Jerusalem ; and they allowed every man, 
after paying a moderate tribute, to visit the holy sepulchre, to perform his religious 
duties, and to return in peace. But the Turcomans or Turks, a tribe of Tartars, 
who had embraced Mahometanism, having wrested Syria from the Saracens, and 
having in the year 1065, made themselves masters of Jerusalem, rendered the 
pilgrimage much more difficult and dangerous to the Christians. The barbarity of 
their manners, and the confusions attending their unsettled government, exposed 
the pilgrims to many insults, robberies, and extortions : and these zealots, return¬ 
ing from their meritorious fatigues and sufferings, filled all Christendom with 
indignation against the infidels, who profaned the holy city by their presence, and 
derided the sacred mysteries in the very place of their completion. Gregory VII. 
among the other vast ideas which he entertained, had formed the design of unitiu o- 
all the Western Christians against the Mahometans ; but the egregious and violent 
invasions of that pontiff on the civil power of princes, had created him so many 
enemies and had rendered his schemes so suspicious, that he was not able to make 
great progress in this undertaking. The work was reserved for a meaner instru¬ 
ment, whose low condition in life exposed him to no jealousy, and whose folly was 
well calculated to coincide with the prevailing principles of the times. 

Peter, commonly called the Hermit, a native of Amiens in Picardy, had made 
the pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Being deeply affected with the dangers to which that 
act of piety now exposed the pilgrims, as well as with the instances of oppression 
under which the eastern Christians laboured, he entertained the bold, and in all 



THE CRUSADES. 


HUME.] 


17f> 


appearance impracticable project of leading into Asia, from the farthest extremities 
of the West, armies sufficient to subdue those potent and warlike nations which 
now held the holy city in subjection. lie proposed his views to Martin II. who 
filled the Papal chair, and who, though sensible of the advantages which the head 
of the Christian religion must reap from a religious war, and though he esteemed 
the blind zeal of Peter a proper means for effecting the purpose, resolved not to 
interpose his authority, till he saw a greater probability of success. He summoned 
a council at Plauntia, which consisted of four thousand ecclesiastics, and thirty 
thousand seculars ; and which was so numerous that no hall could contain the 
multitude, and it was necessary to hold the assembly in a plain. The harangues of 
the pope, and of Peter himself, representing the dismal situation of their brethren 
in the east, and the indignity suffered by the Christian name, in allowing the holy 
city to remain in the hands of infidels, here found the minds of men so well 
prepared, that the whole multitude suddenly and violently declared for the war, 
and solemnly devoted themselves to perform this service, so meritorious, as they 
believed it, to God and religion. 

But though Italy seemed tliu3 to have zealously embraced this enterprise, Martin 
knew, that, in order to ensure success, it was necessary to enlist the greater and 
more warlike nations in the same engagement ; and having previously exhorted 
Peter to visit the chief cities and sovereigns of Christendom, he summoned another 
council at Clermont in Auvergne. The fame of this great and pious design being 
now universally diffused, procured the attendance of the greatest prelates, nobles, 
and princes; and when the pope and the hermit renewed their pathetic exhortations, 
the whole assembly as if impelled by an immediate inspiration, not moved by their 
preceding impressions, exclaimed with one voice, It is the will of God , It is the will of 
God! Words deemed so memorable, and so much the result of a divine influence, that 
they were employed as the signal of rendezvous and battle in all the future exploits 
of those adventurers. Men of all ranks flew to arms with the utmost ardour ; and 
an exterior symbol too, a circumstance of chief moment, was here chosen by the 
devoted combatants. The sign of the cross, which had been hitherto so much 
revered among Christians, and which, the more it was an object of reproach among 
the Pagan world, was the more passionately cherished by them, became the badge 
of union, and was affixed to their right shoulder, by all who enlisted themselves in 
this sacred warfare. 

Europe was at this time sunk into profound ignorance and superstition. The 
ecclesiastics had acquired the greatest ascendant over the human mind: tffi 
people, who, berng little restrained by honour, and less by law, abandoned themselves 
to the worst crimes and disorders, knew of no other expiation than the observances 
imposed on them by their spiritual pastors : and it was easy to represent the holy 
war as an equivalent for all penances, and an atonement for every violation of 
justice and humanity. But amidst the abject superstition which now prevailed, the 
military spirit also had universally diffused itself: and though not supported by art or 
discipline, was become the general passion of the nations governed by the feudal 
law. All the great lords possessed the right of peace and war : They were engaged 
in perpetual hostilities with each other : The open country was become a scene of 
outrage and disorder : The cities, still mean and poor, were neither guarded by wall* 
nor protected by privileges, and were exposed to every insult: Individuals were obliged 
to depend for safety on their own force, or their private alliances : And valour w as 
the only excellence which was held in esteem, or gave one man the pre-eminence 
above another. When all the particular superstitions, therefore were here united 
in one great object, the ardour for military enterprises took the same direction ; 






17C 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HUME. 


and Europe, impelled by its two ruling passions, was loosened, as it were, from its 
foundations, and seemed to precipitate itself in one united body upon the east. 

Eobert Duke of Normandy, impelled by the bravery and mistaken generosity of 
his spirit, had early enlisted himself in the Crusade ; but being always unprovided 
with money, he found that it would be impracticable for him to appear in a manner 
suitable to his rank and station at the head of his numerous vassals and subjects, 
frho, transported with the general rage, were determined to follow him into Asia. 
He resolved, therefore, to mortgage, or rather to sell his dominions, which he 
nad not talents to govern ; and he offered them to his brother William, for the 
very unequal sum of ten thousand marks. The bargain was soon concluded : The 
king raised the money by violent extortions on his subjects of all ranks, even on 
the convents, who were obliged to melt their plate in order to furnish the quota 
demanded of them ; He was put. in possession of Normandy and Maine, and 
Eobert providing himself with a magnificent train, set out for the Holy Land. 

After the adventurers in the holy war were assembled on the banks of the 
Bosphorus, opposite to Constantinople, they proceeded on their outerprise ; but 
immediately experienced those difficulties which their zeal had hitherto concealed 
from them, and for which, even if they had foreseen them, it would have been 
almost impossible to provide a remedy. The Greek emperor, Alexis Comnenus, 
who had applied to the western Christians for succour against the Turks, entertained 
hopes, and those but feeble ones, of obtaining such a moderate supply, as, acting 
under his command, might enable him to repulse the enemy : But he was extremely 
astonished to see his dominions overwhelmed, on a sudden, by such an inundation 
of licentious barbarians, who, though they pretended friendship, despised his 
subjects as unwarlike, and detested them as heretical. By all the arts of policy, in 
which he excelled, he endeavoured to divert the torrent; but while he employed 
professions, caresses, civilities, and seeming services towards the leaders of the 
Crusade, he secretly regarded those imperious allies as more dangerous than the 
open enemies by whom his empire had been formerly invaded. Having effected 
that difficult point of disembarking them safely in Asia, he entered into a private 
correspondence with Soliman, emperor of the Turks ; and practised every insidious 
art, which his genius, his power, or his situation, enabled him to employ, for dis¬ 
appointing the enterprise, and discouraging the Latins from making thenceforward 
any such prodigious migrations. His dangerous policy was seconded by the disorders 
inseparable from so vast a multitude, who were not united under one head, and 
were conducted by leaders of the most independent intractable spirit, unacquainted 
with military discipline, and determined enemies to civil authority and submission. 
The scarcity of provisions, the excesses of fatigue, the influence of unknown climates, 
joined to the want of concert in their operations, and to the sword of a warlike 
enemy, destroyed the adventurers by thousands, and would have abated the ardour 
of men impelled to war by less powerful motives. Their zeal, however, their 
bravery, and their irresistible force, still carried them forward, and continually 
advanced them to the great end of their enterprise. After an obstinate seige they 
took Nice, the seat of the Turkish empire ; they defeated Soliman in two great 
battles ; they made themselves masters of Antioch ; and entirely broke the force 
of the Turks, who had so long retained those countries in subjection. The soldan 
of Egypt, whose alliance they had hitherto courted, recovered, on the fall of the 
Turkish power, his former authority in Jerusalem ; and he informed them by his 
ambassadors, that if they came disarmed to that city, they might now perform 
their religious vows, and that all Christian pilgrims, who should thenceforth visit 
the hoiy sepulchre, might expect the some good treatment which they had ever 

















THE CRUSADES. 


177 


HUME.] 


received from liis predecessors. The offer was rejected ; the soldan was required 
to yield up the city to the Christians ; and on his refusal, the champions of the 
cross advanced to the siege of Jerusalem, which they regarded as the consummation 
of their labours. By the detachments which they had made, and the disasters 
which they had undergone, they were diminished to the number of twenty thousand 
foot, and fifteen hundred horse ; but these were still formidable, from their valour, 
their experience, and the obedience which from past calamities, they had learned to 
pay to their leaders. After a siege of five weeks, they took Jerusalem by assault; 
and, impelled by a mixture of military and religious rage, they put the numerous 
garrison and inhabitants to the sword without distinction. 

This oreat event happened on the fifth of July in the last year of the eleventh 
century. 0 The Christian princes and nobles, after choosing Godfrey of Bouillon king 
of Jerusalem, began to settle themselves in their new conquests ; while some of 
them returned to Europe, in order to enjoy at home that glory, which their valour 
had acquired them in this popular and meritorious enterprise. Among these was 
* Robert Duke of Normandy, who, as he had relinquished the greatest dominions of 
any prince that attended the Crusade, had all along distinguished himself by the 
most intrepid courage, as well as by that affable disposition and unbounded gene¬ 
rosity which gain the hearts of soldiers, and qualify a prince to shine in a military 
life. In passing through Italy, he became acquainted with Sibylla, daughter of the 
Count of Conversana, a young lady of great beauty and merit, whom he espoused : 
Indulging himself in this new passion, as well as fond of enjoying ease and pleasure, 
after the fatigues of so many rough campaigns, he lingered a twelvemonth in that 
delicious climate ; and though his friends in the north looked every moment for 
his arrival, none of them knew when they could with certainty expect it. By this 
delay he lost the kingdom of England, which the great fame he had acquired during 
the Crusades, as well as his undoubted title, both by birth and by the preceding 
agreement with his deceased brother, would, had he been present, have infallibly 

I secured to him. _ 


50.—HENRY AND MAUD. 

Anonymous. 

It was upon the accession of Henry I., surnamed the Beau Clerc, or fine, scholar, 
that most deference was paid to the Saxon or conquered part of the nation, and 
that a fresh and great start was given to the system of intermarriage. Duke Robert, 
the eldest of the three brothers, but the weakest and most imprudent, opposed the 
claim of Henry, as he had previously done that of Rufus. The claim of Duke 
Bobert could not be altogether overlooked ; but a popular and weighty recommen¬ 
dation for his brother was, that Henry Beauclerc was an Englishman, born in the 
country, and after the Conquest ; and some of his party, as well Normans as Eng¬ 
lish set up this circumstance as being in itself decisive of his better right to the 
crown. In a charter of liberties, which he issued the day after his coronation in 
Westminster Abbey, Henry merely represented that he owed the crown “ to the 
mercy of God, and the common consent of the barons of the kingdom ; but nc\ei- 
theless his English birth had carried great weight with it, and the frequent re¬ 
ference made to the circumstance flattered the Saxon part of the nation, and may 
have aided in giving the new king English feelings and partialities. . 

In his charter of liberties, Henry Beauclerc, among other things promised to 
restore the old Saxon laws as they stood at the time of King Edward the Confessor 
subject only to the amendments made in them by Ins father ; and, in fact the laws 
ami institutions of the country remained in all essential respects nearly the same 
before the Conquest, No new form or element of slavery was introduced. 


as 










178 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [ANONYMOUS. 

England liad her free-horn men and her born serfs now, as in the da} s of King 
Harold, Edward the Confessor, and King Alfred. Throughout Europe the great 
body of the cultivators of the soil were serfs. The legal restrictions and disabili¬ 
ties which chained the labouring classes in England all existed before the Conquest, 
nor, though individuals suffered, was any class of the community deprived by that 
revolution of rights which it had previously possessed, or depressed to a lowei posi¬ 
tion in the state than it had previously occupied. The Conquest had been destruc¬ 
tive and dreadful, and a foreign yoke is odious at its first pressure. Eut in pro¬ 
portion as the races became mixed, these distinctions were forgotten ; and even 
under the sons of the Conqueror, Kufus and the Beauclerc, England on. the whole 
was a milder and better governed country than almost any other on the continent 
of Europe—not less free, not more oppressed by kings and baronage, and much 
less frequently distracted and wasted by internal war than the French kingdom, or 
any of the great states which then surrounded and now form integral parts of that 
kingdom. 

Henry Beauclerc, who, on all necessary occasions, boasted of his English birth, 
determined to espouse an English wife as soon as he was seated on the throne. 
The lady of his choice was, to use the words of the Saxon Chronicle, “ Maud, 
daughter of Malcolm, King of Scots, and of Margaret the good queen, the relation 
of King Edward, and of the right kingly kin of England.” This descendant of the 
great Alfred had been sent from Scotland in her childhood to be educated by her 
aunt Christina, Edgar Atheling’s second sister, who was abbess of Wilton in Wilt¬ 
shire. As she grew up, several of the Norman captains, who had become great 
lords in England, aspired to the honour of her hand ; but though several matches 
had been negotiated, none had been concluded. It should appear that the Bed King 
acknowledged the importance of the fair Saxon of the ancient royal line, by pre¬ 
venting his powerful vassal William de Garenne from marrying her. When proposals 
were first made on the part of King Henry, Maud showed an aversion to the match. 
But she was assailed by irresistible arguments. “ O noblest and fairest among 
women,” said her Saxon advisers, “ if thou wilt thou canst restore the ancient 
honour of England, and be a pledge of reconciliation and friendship !” When the 
fair Saxon yielded, some of the Norman nobles, neither liking to see an English 
woman raised to be their queen, nor the power of their king confirmed by a union 
which would endear him to the native race, and render him less dependent on 
Norman arms, raised a new obstacle, by asserting that Maud was a nun, and that 
she had been seen wearing the veil. If true, this was insurmountable. Henry 
postponed the marriage, and applied to Anselm, the Archbishop of Canterbury, to 
institute an inquiry. Anselm, being himself eager for the match, and very friendly 
to the English people, caused the royal maiden to be brought before him, and then 
questioned her gently with his own voice. To the archbishop Maud denied that 
she had ever taken the vows, or, of her free will, worn the veil.; and she offered to 
give full proof of this before all the prelates of England. “ I must confess,” she 
said, “ that I have sometimes appeared veiled ; but listen unto the cause : in my first 
youth, when I was living under her care, my aunt, to save me, as she said, from 
the lust of the Normans, who attacked all females, was accustomed to throw a 
piece of black stuff over my head ; and if I refused to cover myself with it, she 
would treat me very roughly. In her presence I wore that black covering, but as 
soon as she was out of sight I threw it on the ground and trampled it under foot 
in childish anger.” After receiving this naive explanation, which is by itself worth 
a chapter of ordinary history, the learned and venerable archbishop called a council 
of bishops, abbots, and monks, and summoned before this council the gentle and 
lovely Maud, and many of her witnesses, of both sexes and of both races. Two 




HENRY AND MAUD. 


179 


ANONYMOUS.] 


archdeacons, who had expressly visited the convent in which the young lady had 
been brought up, deposed that public report and the testimony of the nuns of that 
godly house agreed with and confirmed the declaration which Maud had made to 
the archbishop. The council unanimously decreed that the young lady w r as free, 
and could dispose of herself in marriage. On Sunday, the 11th of November, a.d. 
1100, or little more than three months after the accession of the Beauclerc, the 
marriage was celebrated, and the Saxon queen was crowned with great pomp and 
solemnity. According to the chroniclers, both Norman and English, she proved a 
loving and obedient wife, as beautiful in mind as in person, being distinguished by 
a love of learning and great charity to the poor. Her elevation to the throne filled 
the hearts of the Saxon part of the nation with exceeding great joy. No son of 
the gentle Maud lived to succeed the Beauclerc, and through this misfortune Eng¬ 
land was visited by the miseries inseparably connected with disputed successions 
and civil wars. Yet this union between the blood of the Conqueror and the blocd 
of King Alfred had a great and beneficial effect: it served as an example to some 
of the Norman baronage, it gave the court of the Beauclerc more of an English 
or Saxon character, and contributed to do away with many invidious distinctions. 


51.—ROBERT THE CAPTIVE. Burke. 

The Crusade being successfully finished by the taking of Jerusalem, Robert re¬ 
turned into Europe. He had acquired great reputation in that wai, in which ho 
had no interest; his real and valuable rights he prosecuted with languor. Yet 
such was the respect paid to his title, and such the attraction of his personal ae 
complishments, that when he had at last taken possession of his Norman terri¬ 
tories, and entered England with an army to assert his birthright, .he found most 
of the Norman barons, and many of the English, in readiness to join him. But 
the diligence of Anselm, who employed all his credit to keep the people firm to the 
oath they had taken, prevented him from profiting of the general inclination in his 
favour. His friends began to fall off’ by degrees, so that he was induced, as well by 
the situation of his affairs, as the flexibility of his temper, to submit to a treaty on 
the plan of that he had formerly entered into with his brother Rufus. . 

This treaty being made, Robert returned to his dukedom, and gave himself ove* 
to his natural indolence and dissipation. Uncured by his misfortunes of a loose 
generosity, that flowed indiscriminately on all, he mortgaged every branch of his 
revenue, and almost his whole domain. His barons, despising his indigence, and 
secure in the benignity of his temper, began to assume the unhappy privilege of 
sovereigns. They made war on each other at pleasure, and, pursuing their hosti¬ 
lities with the most scandalous license, they reduced that fine country to a deplor¬ 
able condition. In vain did the people, ruined by the tyranny and divisions of 
the great apply to Robert for protection ; neither from his circumstances, nor Ins 
character, was he able to afford them any effectual relief: whilst Henry, who by 
his bribes and artifices kept alive the disorder, of which he complained and pro¬ 
fited formed a party in Normandy to call him over, and to put the dukedom un ei 
his protection. Accordingly he prepared a considerable force for the expedition, 
and 1 taxed his own subjects arbitrarily, and without mercy, for the relief he pre¬ 
tended to afford those of his brother. His preparations roused Robert from his 
indolence, and united likewise the greater part 

to change a master, whose only fault was his indulgence of them, foi the severe 
• - i ™ nf Honrv The Kino 1 of France espoused the same side , and even in 

in favour of the duke by indignation for the 

wrongs he had suffered, and those he was going to suffer. Henry was alaimcd, 







i80 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[burke. 


bat did not renounce his design. He was to the last degree jealous of his preroga¬ 
tive ; but knowing what immense resources kings may have in popularity, he called 
on this occasion a great council of his barons and prelates ; and there, by his arts 
and his eloquence, in both which he was powerful, he persuaded the assembly to a 
hearty declaration in his favour, and to a large supply. Thus secured at home, he 
lost no time to pass over to the continent, and to bring the Norman army to a 
speedy engagement; they fought under the walls of Tenchebray, where the bravery 
and military genius of Robert, never more conspicuous than on that day, were 
borne down by the superior fortune and numbers of his ambitious brother. He 
was made prisoner ; and notwithstanding all the tender pleas of their common 
blood, in spite of his virtues, and even of his misfortunes, which pleaded so strongly 
for mercy, the rigid conqueror held him in various prisons until his death, which 
did not happen until after a rigorous confinement of eighteen, some say twenty- 
seven years. This was the end of a prince born with a thousand excellent quali¬ 
ties, which served no other purpose than to confirm, from the example of his mis¬ 
fortunes, that a facility of disposition, and a weak beneficence, are the greatest 
vices that can enter into the composition of a monarch, equally ruinous to himself 
and to his subjects. 

The success of this battle put Henry in possession of Normandy, which he held 
ever after with very little disturbance. He fortified his new acquisition by de¬ 
molishing the castles of those turbulent barons who had wasted, and afterwards 
enslaved, their country by their dissensions. Order and justice took place, until 
every thing was reduced to obedience ; then a severe and regular oppression suc¬ 
ceeded the former disorderly tyranny. In England things took the same course. 
The king no longer doubted his fortune, and therefore no longer respected his pro¬ 
mises or his charter. The forests, the savage passion of the Norman princes, for 
which.both the prince and people paid so dearly, were maintained, increased, and 
guarded with laws more rigorous than before. Taxes were largely and arbitrarily 
assessed. But all this tyranny did not weaken, though it vexed, the nation, be¬ 
cause the great men were kept in proper subjection, and justice was steadily ad¬ 
ministered. 


52.—THE SHIPWRECK OF PRINCE WILLIAM. 


Southey. 

When his elder brother was preparing an armament in Normandy, for the 
purpose of asserting his right to the English crown, the Red King permitted his 
subjects to fit out cruisers ; and these adventurers, who seem to have been the first 
that may be called privateers, rendered him good service; for the Normans, 
knowing that there was no navy to oppose them, and that when they landed they 
were more likely to be received by their friends and confederates than to be 
attacked before they were collected in sufficient numbers for defence, began to cross 
the Channel, each at their own convenience, without concert, or any regard to 
mutual support ; and so many of them were intercepted and destroyed by these 
ciuisers, that the attempt at invasion was, in consequence abandoned. The remain¬ 
der of Rufus’s reign, short as it was, sufficed, through his own vigorous policy and 
• the carelessness of his antagonist, for him to acquire a superiority at sea, which 
enabled him, at any time, to invade Normandy. 

Once when he was hunting, a messenger from beyond sea brought him news 
that the city of Mans, which he had added to his possessions, was besieged. He 
instantly turned his horse, and set off for the nearest port. The nobles who were 
in his company reminded him that it was necessary to call out troops, and wait for 










80UTHEY.] 


THE SHIPWRECK OF PRINCE WILLIAM. 


181 


them. “I shall see who will follow me,” was his reply ; “ and, if I understand the 
temper of the youth of this country, I shall have people enough.” Waiting for 
nothing, he reached the port almost unattended, and embarked immediately, although 
it blew a storm. The sailors entreated him to have patience till the weather should 
abate, and the wind become more favourable. But he made answer, I never 
heard of a king that was shipwrecked. Weigh anchor, and you will see that the 
winds will be with us!” He has been extolled for this act of characteristic 
impatience and resolution, because the event happened to be fortunate: celerity 
was of great importance ; and the news of his landing, as it was concluded that he 
came in force, sufficed for raising the siege. It was not in him a bravado in 
imitation of Csesar : that well-known story was known to very few m those ages, 
— the Red King had neither inclination nor leisure for learning ; and it was even 
more in character with him than with Caesar, the act itself being of more daring 
and less reasonable hardihood. On the other hand, he has been condemned, anc 
with more justice, as manifesting here a spirit of audacious impiety, for wine i, 
among his other vices, he was peculiarly noted ; and there are writers who, falling 
into an opposite extreme, have presumed to say that this special sin was visitec jy 
a special judgment upon the person of his nephew, Prince William, —the pndo 
and hope of his father, and, indeed, of the English nation, who saw m lnm the 
representative, by his mother’s side, of the old Anglo-Saxon line. W illiam s bravado 
would no doubt, be remembered after that catastrophe with poignant feelings by 
the bereaved father ; but Henry Beauclerc had in his own conscience an unerring 
witness that his own sins of ambition had too surely deserved such a chastisement 
Many shipwrecks have been attended with far greater loss of lives, and with fai 
more dreadful circumstances ; but none can ever have produced so general a n 
emotion in this country, nor has any single event ever been the occasion here of 

so much national suffering, as this, which opened the way St *P te “ 3 Th^none’s 
After a successful campaign in France, happily concluded through the popes 
mediation by a peace, Henry embarked from Barfleur for England, with this his 
only legitimate son, then recently married, and in his seventeen^ y^n neo^ 

the finest vessels in the fleet was a galley of fifty oars, called ?’ d 

and commanded by a certain Thomas Fitzstephens whose grandfather had^ earned 
over the Conqueror when he invaded the kingdom which he won. Upon this 
m-ound Fitzstephens solicited the honour of now conveying the king, upon an occa¬ 
sion as much more joyful as it was less momentous. Henry was pleased with a 
reonest preferred for such a motive ; and, though having chosen a vessel for him¬ 
self he did not think proper to alter his own arrangements, he left Prince M illiam, 
with the rest of his family, and their friends and attendants, to 

in the White Ship > ^Hh the Prince hTstatfial 

btthlr e te e hard 0 andtheifsisterfihe Lady Marie, Countess of Perch, Richard, Earl 
of Cteter rrith his wife, who was the king’s niece, and her brother the Prince s 

car*: ■SSs 

« - - i’f'uf any ° 
ia?n and the helmsman, under the same excitement, were unmindful of any , 








182 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SOUTHEY. 


and when the ship was going through the w r ater with all the stress of oars and 
sails, she struck upon a rock, called the Catee-raze , with such violence that several 
planks were started, and she instantly began to fill. A boat was immediately 
lowered, and the Prince was escaping in it, — which he might easily have done, 
for the shore was at no great distance, — when his sister, whom there had been 
no time to take off, or who in the horror of the moment had been forgotten, 
shrieked out to him to save her. It was better to die than turn a deaf ear to that 
call: he ordered the boat to put back and take her in ; but such numbers leapt into 
it at the same time that the boat was swamped and all perished. The ship also pre¬ 
sently went down with all on board : only two persons, the one a young noble, son of 
Gilbert de Aquila, the other a butcher of Rouen, saved themselves : by climbing the 
mast, and clinging to the top, they kept their heads above water. Fitzstephens rose 
after the vessel had sunk, and might have taken the same chance of preservation ; 
but calling to mind, after the first instinctive effort, that he had been the unhappy 
occasion of this great calamity, and dreading the reproaches, and perhaps the 
punishment that awaited him, he preferred present death as the least evil. The 
youth became exhausted during the night ; and commending his poor companion 
to God's mercy with his last words, he lost his hold, and sunk. The butcher held 
on till morning, when he was seen from the shore and saved ; and from him, being 
the only survivor, the circumstances of the tragedy were learnt. 


53.—THE WRECK OF THE WHITE SHIP. 
SCENE FIRST. 


Rev. J. White. 


Barfleur—near the Harbour. 

Enter Prince William : Countess de la Perche — Lords , Ladies and Minstrels. Servitors 

with golden flagons. A confused noise of revelry is heard before they enter. 

$ 

Prince (crowned with vine-leaves.') Here stand ! There comes a 
faintness o’er the sky, 

As if it paled to think its joy was over, 

At sight of the white moon o’er yonder hill. 

Countess. Moonlight is sweetest ever on the sea. 

Prince. Then be thou happy, sister, for its horns 
Point lovingly for England. To her health ! 

A brimming cup, brave friends, and then on board !— 

Voices. A song ! a song ! 

Prince. Sing, Eustace, with a voice 
Fit for our bacchanal ears. We listen. Sing. 

Eustace sings. 

The sea foams white o’er rock and shoal, 

And gathers to a heap, 

Where the wild wind pipes, and the waters roll, 

And high o’er the Godwins leap.— 

I hate the sea with land on our lea, 

A merrier life for me ! 

II. 

A foam I know more dazzling white 
Than waves o’er rock and shoal; 

That dances and leaps with bound, more light_ 

Tis the bright wine in our bowl.— 









REV. J. WHITE.] 


THE WRECK OF THE WHITE SHIP. 


183 


I bate the sea with land on our lea, 

A merrier life for me ! 

III. 

No rock lurks here, no shoal is found 
In all this ocean wide ! 

But yet if there’s one that is horn to be drown’d— 

There’s depth enough in this tide.— 

I hate the sea with land on our lea, 

A merrier life for me.— 

Prince. Ill omen’d croaker, with your rock and shoal, 

You’ve cast a shadow o’er my sister’s face 

That drowns the flush that wine and joy had given. 

Countess. I think ’twere better to embark.— 

Prince. So sadly ? 

You heed not what an idle minstrel sings. 

Countess. No, William ; I should fear if he were pilot; 

His hand would scarcely guide the helm so surely 
As now it guides the tune along the chords— 

Prince {looking to the harbour .) Hark ! mirth on board—’Tis right $ 

’twere pity, sister, 

If happiness were a lubber all his days, 

And never went to sea. 

Countess. I wish, dear brother, 

They made not happiness so dolphin-like, 

With so much of the fish in’t; it may visit 
Its native element. Let’s stay the night :— 

To morrow we shall sail, and if the wind 
Blow not the harder, we shall catch the king 

A sleeping in the calm. 

Prince. No ! we’ll aboard : 

And pass the silken sails where dallying winds 
Do make their cradle not their working ground ; 

And scarce the lazy helmsman shall have time 
To say an ave ’gainst a witch’s presence 
Ere the White Ship, with sixty silver oars, 

Faint from his vision like a spectral shape ; 

And we shall touch the shores of England first, 

Tho’ Henry gained the start by six good hours. 

You fear not, sister ? See how calm the waves ! 

Lying in lazy folds like the huge snake 
We saw, when gorged, coil up its glossy length 
And sleep so calmly. 

Countess, {alarmed) Dreaming of fresh food 

And ready for the spring. Stay here the night ■ 

You are too happy ; too o’erjoyed, my brother ; . 

So crowned with these deep vine leaves that their spirit 
Has slipt within, and your poor soul lies sleeping 
Half buried ’neath the clusters of Champagne ! 

Prince. Then cover it all over ! for no King 
E’er rested ’neath so rich a canopy ! 

But here the Pilot comes. {Enter Pilot). What weather, master 
Hope we to night ? 












184 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[rev, j. wHrra. 


Pilot {flustered with wine) I call it not weather at all— 

’Tis but the corpse of weather, wanting breath, 

As wanting breath man’s but the corpse of man—■ 

So as you said, sir —{takes a flagon f rom servitor and drinks.) 

Prince ! my service to ye—■ 

Milksoppy weather—weather only fit 
For painted boats ; weather, where little maids 
Some fifteen years or so, might stretch a helm 
Of ostrich plume and steer a nautilus shell 
As well as I could steer the good White ship. 

Countess {more alarmed) Have you been long a pilot ? 

Pilot. Never a time. 

When I was anything else. 

Countess. And know the sea ? 

Pilot. As if I had married her like the Doge of Venice ; 

And rule her better ;—and care less for her frowns 
Than e’er a husband in the realm of France— 

[Music and dancing heard on board. 
Prince. Away ! the sound of merry feet on deck 
Beats the pulsed air to music—Your fair hand ;— 

Sister—your heart holds a divided blood 

Drawn from two founts, one kingly, one a churl’s— 

Let the red half find mastery in the struggle, 

And glow ’mid terror like a rose in snow— 

Countess {with an effort) The daughter of a King knows nought of terror; 
Come, brother; and the lightest step and voice 
Shall be your sister’s. 

Prince. Way there ; sound the horn ! 

Horn is sounded. Exeunt towards the ship. 

SCENE SECOND. 

The Castle in Dover. — Ilenry.—Hubert of Chester. 

Henry. So long detained, and not a wind in heaven 
To stir the pear-tree blossom. 

Hubert. Pleasure, sir, 

Heeds not of wind—Along the shores of France 
His Highness, doubtless, draws a line of light 
With his ships’ gilded prow—and into nooks 
And calm recesses where the rivers creep, 

Between high flowery banks, his course is borne 
Up to the inland levels,—there they’ll land 
And dance, or sitting round some babbling fountain 
Listen to Eustace’ songs. 

Henry. ’Twoulcl please me better 

If William cared to share our troubles more— 

To taste nis pleasures less. Once more, I pray you, 

Go to the toppling cliff and watch their coming. 

We sit in judgment here, and it wcr„ dt 
Our heir should help this arm now feeble grown. 

To bear the upright sword. 

Enter ArnvJf of LancasterYvo his son, bound; guards , <f-c.~ 

Arnulf. Is there no hope ? 


[ Exit Hubert . 





BEV. J. WHITE.] 


THE WRECK OF THE WHITE SHIP. 


No throb of pity for a father’s grief 
Within that heart filled with a father’s joys ? 

Henry. Arnulf of Lancaster, if lowlier state 
Were ours, we might have ears to hear the throb ; 

But there’s a tumult in the soul of kings 
That drowns all voices save the trumpet tongue 
Of justice ; we have doom’d your son to death. 

Yvo. As Heaven bears witness ’twas no treasonous aid 
I promised to your Norman rebels. 

Henry. That 

Rests with the Judges who with searching eyes 
Viewed the whole cause ; their voice pronounced you guilty.- 
It fits not the King’s office to withstand 
The course of right, which as a mighty river, 

Passing right onward from the throne of God, 

Enriches every land through which it flows ! 

Woe be to him who checks that sacred stream, 

Diverts it,—stains it—or to fraudulent use 

Turns its clear waters. They have doom’d your death . 

I meddle not. I stir not. 

Arnulf. Oh my liege !— 

He is mine only son. I say no word 
Against the justice that has spoke the doom ; 

You are a King. Ah sir, you are a father 
Now greyed with age as I am ; we were young 
Together, and our sons were friends and playmates ;— 

If, as a King, your hand obdurate holds 
The unbending scale, let Yvo owe his life 
To mercy !—to the sweet companionship 
’Tween him and princely William. 

Yvo. For short space 

Let me at least have room for secret speech 
With William. 

Henry. But to shew you that his heart 

Is fixed as mine in such a cause as this, 

You shall survive his coming by an hour. 

But build no hope of safety on delay— 

If you w r ere nearer to my blood than he is 

And you, brave Arnulf, were you twice my brother, 

Nothing should change his fate. He dies. Retire. 

Arnulf. You shall not hear me claim your ruth again. 
Come, son,—you’ve ever been my pride, my hope, 

And now I see you dying pulse by pulse, 

I would, sir king, I had known how hard your heart 
Ere I had emptied these poor veins of blood 
In Brenneville field—and you, my gallant Y\o, 

You bled there too. 1 take you in my arms 
And plant this woman’s kiss upon your bro 
Where late your dying mother’s lips were placed ; 

Then to my lonely home, and desolate health. 

Come Yvo—If the time should e’er arrive 
That one soft word would save your William’s life 


185 



186 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[REV. J. WHITE. 

I pray you think of this— [they are retiring. 

Henry. I cannot bend— 

Enter Hubert — hurriedly—a Mariner. 

Hubert. Oh sir, prepare !—encase your soul in steel 
For fierce and biting as a falchion’s blade 
The dreadful news I bring— 

Henry. A prisoner 1 — 

Hubert. Oh worse !—imprisoned in such binding chains 
That nought shall loose them till the judgment day ! 

Henry. How ? dead ?— 

Hubert. Even so—Here stands a man whose tongue 

Shall frame the words mine has no power to utter 

Henry, (to the Mariner .) Speak, and be bold; stand not in breathless 
awe ; 

There is no greatness in a sonless King. 

Mariner. ’Tis grief not fear. Last night the crescent moon 
Looked down on a calm deep without a wave 
Doubtful of which was heaven and which was sea : 

On the smooth water glided the White Ship 
With mirth and music filling all the air— 

My lord the Prince and Countess de la Perche— 

Henry. My Marie too !—proceed— 

Mariner. ' —Headed the band 

Of Knights and noble ladies in the dance; 

Goblets went round, and from the fiery lip 
Of passion gush’d, at times, the stream of song. 

Seated in groups, hiding them from the moon 
Behind the shadowing mast, the brave and fair 
Looked o’er the side and counted as they dript 
The pearls that sparkled from the chiming oars, 

Or talked of home, and pressed each other’s hands. 

Sudden a shock startled that happy dream! 

The blinded Helmsman reeling from his cup, 

Looked round in vain. Another shock ! Ah me! 

And the white ship groan’d like a living thing 
As the black waters rushed within her planks, 

And mingled with the screams and shouts and fears 
That filled all hearts and ears. But soon a boat 
Was hauled to th’ side ;—within it stept the Prince,— 

And ere the rest could follow, the brave crew 
Which manned it, pushed away ;—a look he cast 
On the now reeling ship, and at the side 
—Her clasp’d hands raised within the calm moon light, 

And nothing saying,—the young Countess stood : 

“ Back ! back again ! ” we heard Prince William say 
“ My sister must be saved or I will die.” 

Henry. Thank God for that! 

Mariner. And back he forced the boat,— 

But when within the spring of desperate men, 

The small boat came, leaping as if from death, 

But finding death more surely by their leap, 

Knight, noble, seaman—aye, the timorous maid 


THE WRECK OP THE WHITE SHIP. 


187 


REV. J. WHITE.] 


Rushed struggling from the wreck ; and with a plunge 
Down went the tiny bark, and the white sea 
Was streaked by pallid faces, uttering cries 
That ne’er shall leave these ears ; and ’mong them all 
Clasping his sister, with a look to Heaven, 

Sank William. 

Henry. This you saw ? 

Mariner. I did, my liege ; 

And grasp’d the loosen’d cordage of the ship 
That still lay quivering on the fatal rock, 

And gained the mast. There all the night I stood 
Alone amid that desert of blank sea, 

Till the cold sun arose ; and nothing moved— 

Moveless and silent all; distant or near 
No sound,—but ever the unruffled tide 
Lay ’neath the heaven a sheet of steel or glass. 

Henry. Stay here and be my friend. You tell the tale 
Manly, as to a man. Hubert, these lips 
Have smiled their last ; the salt sea holds my joy. 

Arnulf (coming forward). Better the salt sea than the crimson gia\e 

That your remorseless hand has dug for me. 

I bade you think, when came death s bitterness, 

On me and mine. 

Henry. Arnulf, the stroke of grief 

That bruised my heart has broke the sceptre too. 

Come hither, Yvo. He has press’d this hand 
And looked upon that face; you never more 
Shall feel his grasp nor stand within his eyej— 

But you shall live. Embrace your fathei, \vo, 

And be, a month, the comrade of his joy ; 

Then come to me, and there shall be between us 
A bond that nothing on this earth shall sever. 


54,—OPPRESSIONS OF THE PEOPLE. 

From the ‘ Pictorial History of England.’ 

Both the Conqueror and his son Henry have the character of having been strict 
administrators of the laws, and rigorously exact and severe m the Py^hmeJ of 
offences against the public peace. The Saxon Chronicler says that in the time ^ 
the former a girl loaded with gold might have passed safe y 0 P 
the kingdom. g In like manner the same authority tells us, that, under the gove - 
ment of Henry, “ whoso bore his burden of gold and silver, durs no man s y 
ffm nought but good ” The maintenance of so effective a system of police must 
no doubt, have made a great difference between these reigns and thos^of Eufu^and 
Stephen-in both of which robbery ranged the kingdom almost withoid 
and, in the latter especially, the whole landwasahnost 8™^ wa3 in 

and the power of the strongest. But still even this suprem y 

many respects an oppressive bondage to the subject. n is, * th( j 

the main object of the government was the protection a «” e “ ^obbery and 
r0V al revenue : and it may be correctly enough affirmed, that private roODery ana 

depredation were prohibited and punished chiefly on the principle that no u 





] 38 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [ANONYMOUS. 

ference was to be tolerated with the rights of the great public robber, the govern¬ 
ment. Many of the laws, also, which were so sternly enforced, were in reality most 
unjust and grievous restrictions upon the people. Of this character, in particular, 
were the forest-laws, which punished a trespass upon the royal hunting-grounds, or 
the slaughter of a wild beast, with the same penalty that was inflicted upon the 
robber or the murderer. And in all cases the vengeance of the law was wreaked 
upon its victims in a spirit so precipitate, reckless and merciless, that any salutary 
effect of the example must have been to a great extent, neutralized by its tending 
to harden and brutalize the public mind ; and the most cruel injustice must have 
been often perpetrated in the name and under the direct authority of the law. 

Henry I. was popularly called the Lion of Justice, and he well deserved the name. 
His mode of judicial procedure was in the highest degree summary and sweeping. 
In the twenty-fifth year of his reign, for instance, in a fit of furious indignation 
occasioned by the continued and increasing debasement of the coin, he had all the 
moneyers in the kingdom, to the number of more than fifty, brought up before the 
Court of Exchequer, when, after a short examination by the treasurer, they were all, 
except four, taken one by one into an adjoining apartment, and punished by having 
their right hands struck off, and being otherwise mutilated. The year before he 
had hanged at one time, at Huncot, in Leicestershire, no fewer than forty-four 
persons, charged with highway-robbery. Robberies, however, of the most atrocious 
description were, during a great part of the reign, perpetrated, without check, by 
the immediate servants, and it may be said under the very orders, of the crown. 
The insolence of the purveyors and numerous followers of the court in the royal 
progresses is described by contemporary writers as having reached a height under 
this king far transcending even what it had attained to under either of his imme¬ 
diate predecessors. They used not only to enter the houses of the farmers and 
peasantry without leave asked, to take up their lodgings and remain as long as it 
suited them, and to cat and drink their fill of whatever they found, but, in the 
wantonness of their official license, frequently even to burn or otherwise destroy 
what they could not consume. At other times they would carry it away with them, 
and sell it. If the owners ventured to remonstrate, their houses would probably be 
set on fire about their ears, or mutilation, and sometimes even death, might punish 
their presumption. Nor was it their goods only that were plundered or wasted ; 
the honour of their wives and daughters was equally a free prey to these swarms 
of protected spoilers. The approach of the King to any district, accordingly, spread 
as much dread as could have been occasioned by an announcement that a public 
enemy was at hand. The inhabitants were wont to conceal whatever they had, 
and flee to the woods. 

It was not till the necessity of reforming these frightful abuses was at last forced 
upon Henry, by the solitude which he found around him wherever he appeared,— 
in other words, till this system of unrestrained rapacity came at last to defeat its 
own purpose,— that he had some of the delinquents brought before him, and 
punished by the amputation of a hand or a foot, or the extraction of one of their 
eyes. Yet the most unsparing pillage of the people in other forms continued 
throughout the whole of this reign. Taxes were imposed with no reference to any 
other consideration except the wants of the crown ; and the raising of the money 
was managed by any measures, however violent or irregular that would serve that 
end. It is an affecting trait of the sufferings of one numerous class of the people 
which is recorded by the historian Eadmer, in his statement that the peasantry on 
the domains of the crown would sometimes offer to give up their ploughs to the 
king, in their inability to pay the heavy exactions with which they were burdened. 
These unhappy men, it is to be remembered, were without any means of escape 


OPPRESSIONS OF THE PEOPLE. 


181 ) 


anonymous.] 

from the extortion which thus ground them to the earth ; even if, in some cases, 
they were not attached to the soil by any legal bond, they might still be considered 
as rooted to it nearly as much as the trees that grew on it ; for in that state of 
society there was, generally speaking, no resource for the great body of the commu¬ 
nity except to remain m the sphere in which they were boin, and in which tlieii 

fathers had moved. 

The same historian paints in strong colours the miseries occasioned by the 
oppressiveness of the general taxes. The collectors, he says, seemed to have no 
sense either of humanity or justice. It was equally unfortunate for a man to be 
possessed of money as to be without it. In the latter case, he was cast inta 
prison, or obliged to flee from the country ; or his goods were taken and sold ; the 
very door of his house being sometimes carried away as a punishment for not 
satisfying the demand made upon him. But, if he had money, it was no better ; 
his wealth was only a provocation to the rapacity of the government, which never 
ceased to harass him by threats of prosecutions on unfounded charges, or by some 
of the other means of extortion at its command, until it drove him to comply with 
its most unjust requisitions. The language of the Saxon chronicler is to the same 
purport and equally strong. “ God knows,” says that other contemporary writer, 
“ how unjustly this miserable people is dealt with. First they are deprived of their 
property, and then they are put to death. If a man possesses anything it is taken 
from him ; if he has nothing, he is left to perish by famine.” 

A legend respecting Henry I., which is related by some of the old historians, 
forcibly depicts the deep sense that was popularly entertained of the tyranny of his 
government and the fierce hatred which it engendered in the hearts of his subjects. 
In the year 1130, as he was passing over to Normandy, he is said to have been 
visited one night with an extraordinary dream or vision. First, there gathered 
around him a multitude of countrymen, bearing scythes, spades, and pitch-forks, 
and with anger and threatening in their countenances : they passed away, and the 
place they had occupied was filled by a crowd of armed soldiers with drawn swords ; 
the scene changed again, and crosiered bishops seemed to be leaning over his bed, 
ready to fall upon him, as if they meant to kill him with their holy staves. Thus 
the tillers of the ground, the military, and the church,—the three most important 
interests of the kingdom,— appeared to have each sent its representatives to reproach 
and curse, and menace him. The dream is said to have produced a great 
impression upon Henry. He awoke in extreme perturbation, leaped out of his bed, 
seized his sword, and called violently for his attendants. When he became more 
calm he solemnly resolved upon repentance and amendment of life, and it is 
affirmed that, from this time, he began to be an altered man. 


55 ,_THE CHILDREN OF HENRY. 


rillEllRY. 


According to the ancient historians, King Henry was never seen to smile after 
A ° J.l, „f his children His wife Matilda was dead, and lay at Winchester, 
!S t her to^containing a few English words ; of which the monuments 
the rkh and great in England would not, for along time, furnish another example. 

• • + m +• uio rperina * * * * ab Ano-lis vocata Mold the good queen. Heniy took 

rc jacetMatildis reg a “ » which had again fallen into contempt, 

of the Conqueror. This new marriage 
dw that it was no lo g J affections were now concentrated on a natural 

m named Robert, ‘the only one now left him. About the time that this son arrived 







190 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY 

at an age to marry, it happened that a certain Robert Fitz-Aymes or Fitz-Aymon, 
a Norman by birth, and the owner of great estates in the county of Gloucester, 
died, leaving an only daughter, named Aimable, and familiarly Mable or Mabile, 
heiress to his possessions. King Henry negociated with the relatives of this young 
lady, a marriage between her and his illegitimate son, Robert; they consented, but 
Aimable refused. She continued obdurate for some time, without explaining the 
motives of her repugnance, until at last, being much urged, she declared that she 
would never be the wife of a man who had not two names. 

Two names, or a two-fold name, composed of a Christian and surname, either 
purely genealogical, or signifying the possession of an estate, or the holding of some 
office, was one of the’ signs by which the Norman race in England distinguished 
themselves from the English. In the ages succeeding the conquest, any one with 
only a Christian name, was liable to pass for a Saxon ; and the vigilant pride of the 
heiress of Robert Fitz-Aymon took alarm beforehand at the idea that her future 
husband might be confounded with the ignoble class of natives. She candidly con¬ 
fessed this scruple in a conversation that she had with the king, and which is given 
in the following manner in a chronicle in verse :—“ Sire,” said the young Norman 
lady, “ I know that you have cast your eyes upon me, much less for myself than for 
my inheritance ; but having such a fine inheritance, would it not be a great shame 
for me to take a husband who has not two names ? In his lifetime, my father was 
called Sir Robert Fitz-Aymon: I do not wish to have to do with a man whose name 
does not show whence he springs.” “ Well said, maiden,” replied King Henry ; “ Sir 
Robert Fitz-Aymon was the name of thy father, Sir Robert Fitz-Roy shall be the 
name of thy husband.” “ That, I grant, is a fine name to be an honour to him all 
his life, but what shall his sons, and his sons’ sons call themselves.” The king 
saw the drift of this question, and thus replied to it: “Maiden,” he said, “thy 
husband shall have an irreproachable name, for himself and for his heirs ; he shall 
be called Robert of Gloucester ; for it is my will that he shall be earl of Gloucester, 
he and all his descendants.” 

Of King Henry’s two legitimate children, there still remained to him Matilda, 
the wife of Henry V., Emperor of Germany. She became a widow in the year 1126, 
and returned to live with her father; notwithstanding her -widowhood the Normans 
continued to call her by courtesy the empress. At Christmas Henry held his court, 
with great pomp, in the halls of Windsor Castle, and all the Norman lords of the 
two countries, assembled by his invitation, swore fealty to Matilda, both for the 
duchy of Normandy and for the kingdom of England, promising to pay the same 
allegiance to her after her father’s death, as they had paid to him in his lifetime. 
The first to take this oath was Stephen, the son of the Count de Blois and of Adela, 
daughter of William the Conqueror, one of the most intimate friends of the king, 
and almost holding the place of his favourite. The same year, Foulques, Count of 
Anjou, infected with the new passion of the age, constituted himself what was called 
a soldier of Christ, put the mark of the cross on his shield, his coat of arms, his 
helmet, and the saddle and bridle of his horse, and departed for Jerusalem. In the 
uncertainty of his return he committed the government of the province of Anjou 
to his son Geoffrey, surnamed Plantagenet, on account of a habit he had of wearing 
a sprig of broom in his helm by way of plume. 

King Henry conceived a great friendship for his young neighbour, Count Geoffrey 
of Anjou, on account of his fine person, his elegant manners, and his reputation 
for courage. He even chose to become his sponsor in knighthood, and to perform 
at Rouen, at his own expense, the ceremony of receiving Geoffrey into this high 
military rank. After the bath, into which, according to custom, the new knight 
■was plunged, Henry gave him, as his son in arms, a Spanish horse, a complete suit 




THE CHILDREN OF HENRY. 


191 


THIERRY.] 

of double mail, proof against lance and javelin ; golden spurs, a shield embellished 
with lions in gold, a helmet garnished with precious stones ; a lance of ash-wood, 
with a point of Poitiers steel, and a sword made by Waland, the most renowned 
workman of the time. The friendship of the king of England was not confined to 
these marks of regard, and he determined that his daughter, the Empress Matilda 
should take the Count of Anjou for her second husband. The marriage was con¬ 
summated, but without the previous consent of the nobles of Normandy and Eng¬ 
land, an omission which had the most disastrous effect on the fortune of the young 
couple. Their nuptials were celebrated in Whitsun week of the year 1127, and 
the festivities lasted for three weeks. On the first day, heralds, in full costume, 
paraded the streets of Rouen, at every crossway shouting this strange' proclamation : 
« Thus saith King Henry : Let no man here present, native or foreigner, rich or 
poor, noble or villain, be so bold as to keep away from the royal rejoicings ; for 
whosoever shall not take part in the games and diversions, will be guilty of an 
offence against his lord the king.” 

From the union of Henry’s daughter Matilda, with Geoffrey Plantagenet, was 
born, in the year 1133, a son, who was named Henry, after his grandfather, and 
whom the Normans surnamed Fitz-Enipress, that is to say son of the Empress, to 
distinguish him from his grandfather, whom they called Fitz-William the Conqueror. 
On the birth of his grandson, the Norman king once more convoked his barons of 
England and Normandy, and required them to recognise for his successors the 
children of his daughter, after him, and after her : they consented apparently, and 
swore as he desired. The old king died, two years after, in Normandy, of an in¬ 
digestion, caused by eating lampreys. 


56 —THE ACCESSION OF STEPHEN. 


Hume. 


In the progress and settlement of the feudal law, the male succession to fiefs had 
taken place some time before the female was admitted ; and estates being con¬ 
sidered as military benefices, not as property, were transmitted to such only as 
could serve in the armies, and perform in person the conditions upon which they 
were originally granted. But when the continuance of rights, during some gene-, 
rations, in the same family, had in a great measure obliterated the primitive idea, 
the females were gradually admitted to the possession of feudal property ; and the 
same revolution of principles which procured them the inheritance of private estates, 
naturally introduced their succession to government and authority. Ihe failure, 
therefore, of male heirs to the kingdom of England and dutcliy of Normandy 
seemed to leave the succession open, without a rival, to the Empress Matilda ; and 
as Henry had made all his vassals in both states swear fealty to her, lie presumed 
that they would not easily be induced to depart at once from her hereditary rig it, 
and from their own reiterated oaths and engagements. But the irregular manner 
in which he himself had acquired the crown, might have instructed him, that 
neither his Norman nor English subjects were as yet capable of adhering to a strict 
rule of government; and as every precedent of this kind seems to give an ori ) 
to new usurpations, he had reason to dread, even from his own some in 

vasion of his daughter’s title, which he had taken such pains to es a is * 

Adel a, daughter of William the Conqueror, had been married to Stephen Count 
of Blois, and had brought him several sons, amongst whom, Stephen and enry, 
the two youngest, had been invited over to England by the late king, and had re¬ 
ceived great honours, riches, and preferment, from the zealous friendship whic 1 
ttat prince bore to every one that had been so fortunate as to acquire his favour 






192 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HUME. 

and good opinion. Henry, who had betaken himself to the ecclesiastical profes¬ 
sion, was created abbot of Glastenbury and bishop of Winchester ; and though these 
dignities were considerable, Stephen had, from his uncle’s liberality, attained estab¬ 
lishments still more solid and durable. The king had married him to Matilda, who 
was daughter and heir of Eustace Count of Boulogne, and who brought him, besides 
that feudal sovereignty in France, an immense property in England, which in the 
distribution of lands had been conferred by the conqueror on the family of Boulogne. 
Stephen also by this marriage acquired a new connection with the royal family of 
England ; as Mary, his wife’s mother, was sister to David, the reigning king of 
Scotland, and to Matilda, the first wife of Henry, and mother of the empress. The 
king, still imagining that he strengthened the interests of his family by the aggran¬ 
dizement of Stephen, took pleasure in enriching him by the grant of new posses¬ 
sions ; and he conferred on him the great estate forfeited by Robert Mallet in 
England, and that forfeited by the earl of Mortaigne in Normandy. Stephen, in 
return, professed great attachment to his uncle ; and appeared so zealous for the 
succession of Matilda, that, when the barons swore fealty to that princess, he con¬ 
tended with Robert earl of Gloucester, the king’s natural son, who should first be 
admitted to give her this testimony of devoted zeal and fidelity. Meanwhile he 
continued to cultivate, by every art of popularity, the friendship of the English 
nation ; and many virtues with which he seemed to be endowed, favoured the suc¬ 
cess of his intentions. By his bravery, activity, and vigour, he acquired the esteem 
of the barons. By his generosity, and by an affable and familiar address, unusual 
in that age among men of his high quality, he obtained the affections of the people, 
particularly of the Londoners. And though he dared not to take any steps to¬ 
wards his farther grandeur, lest he should expose himself to the jealousy of so 
penetrating a prince as Henry ; he still hoped that, by accumulating riches and 
power, and by acquiring popularity, he might in time be able to open his way to 
the throne. 

No sooner had Henry breathed his last than Stephen, insensible to all the ties 
of gratitude and fidelity, and blind to danger, gave full reins to his criminal ambi¬ 
tion, and trusted that, even without any previous intrigue, the celerity of his en¬ 
terprise, and the boldness of his attempt, might overcome the weak attachment 
which the English and Normans in that age bore to the laws and to the rights of 
their sovereign. He hastened over to England ; and though the citizens of Dover, 
and those of Canterbury, apprised of his purpose, shut their gates against him, he 
stopped not till he arrived at London, where some of the lower rank, instigated by 
his emissaries, as well as moved by his general popularity, immediately saluted 
him king. His next point was to acquire the good will of the clergy ; and by per¬ 
forming the ceremony of his coronation, to put himself in possession of the throne, 
from which he was confident it would not be easy afterwards to expel him. His 
brother, the bishop of Winchester, was useful in these capital articles, having gained 
Roger, bishop of Salisbury, who, though he owed a great fortune and advancement 
to the favour of the late king, preserved no sense of gratitude to that prince’s 
family; he applied, in conjunction with that prelate, to William Archbishop of 
Canterbury, and required him in virtue of his office, to give the royal unction to 
Stephen. The primate, who, as all the others, had sworn fealty to Matilda, re¬ 
fused to perform this ceremony ; but his opposition was overcome by an expedient 
equally dishonourable with the other steps by which this revolution was affected. 
Hugh Bigod, steward of the household, made oath before the primate, that the late 
king on his death-bed had shown a dissatisfaction with his daughter Matilda and 
had expressed his intention of leaving the Count of Boulogne heir to all his domi¬ 
nions William, either believing, or feigning to believe Bigod’s testimony, anointed 













THE ACCESSION OP STEPHEN. 


193 


HUME.] 

Stephen, and put the crown upon his head ; and from this religious ceremony that 
prince, without any shadow either of hereditary title or consent of the nobility or 
people, was allowed to proceed to the exercise of sovereign authority. Very few 
barons attended his coronation ; hut none opposed his usurpation, however unjust 
or flagrant. The sentiment of religion, which, if corrupted into superstition, has 
often little efficacy in fortifying the duties of civil society, was not aflected by the 
multiplied oaths taken in favour of Matilda, and only rendered the people obedient 
to a prince who was countenanced by the clergy, and who had received from the 
primate the right of royal unction and consecration. 

Stephen, that he might farther secure his tottering throne, passed a chaitei in 
which he made liberal promises to all orders of men ; to the clergy, that he would 
speedily fill all vacant benifices, and would never levy the rents of any of them 
during the vacancy ; to the nobility, that he would reduce the royal forests to their 
ancient boundaries, and correct all encroachments ; and to the people, that he would 
remit the tax of Danegelt, and restore the laws of King Edward. The late king 
had a great treasure at Winchester, amounting to a hundred thousand pounds ; 
and Stephen, by seizing this money, immediately turned against Henry’s family the 
precaution which that prince had employed for their grandeur and security : an 
event which naturally attends the policy of amassing treasures. By means of this 
money the usurper insured the compliance, though not the attachment, of the 
principal clergy and nobility ; but not trusting to this frail security, he invited 
over from the continent, particularly from Britanny and Flanders, great numbers of 
those bravoes or disorderly soldiers, with whom every country m Europe by reason 
of the general ill police and turbulent government, extremely abounded Ihese 
mercenary troops guarded his throne by the terrors of the sword ; and Stephen, 
that he might also overawe all malcontents by new and additional terrors of religion, 
procured a bull from Rome which ratified his title, and which the pope, seeing this 
prince in possession of the throne, and pleased with an appeal to his authority m 

secular controversies, very readily granted him. . T , 

Matilda, and her husband Geoffrey, were as unfortunate m Normandy as they 
had been in England. The Norman nobility, moved by an hereditary animosity 
against the Angevins, first applied to Theobald count of Blow, Stephenia> elder 
brother for protection and assistance ; but hearing afterwards that Stephen 1 ad 
got possession of the English crown, and having many of them the same ^ eas01 ^ as 
formerly for desiring a continuance of their union with that kingdom, the) t < • 

ferred their allegiance to Stephen and put him in possession of their government. 
Lewis the younger, the reigning King of France, accepted the homage of Eustace, 
Stephen’s eldest smi, for the duchy ; and the more to corroborate his <™on 
with that family, he betrothed his sister Constants to the young prince. c 
count of Blois resigned all his pretensions, and received m lieu of them an annual 
nension of two thousand marks ; and Geoffrey himself was obliged to conclude a 
truce for two years with Stephen, on condition of the Kings paying him lining 
that time a pension of five thousand. Stephen who had taken a journey to Norman, y, 
finished all these transactions in person, and soon after returned to Eng an . 

Robert Earl of Gloucester, natural son of the late king, was a man o ^ 
nhilities • and as he was much attached to the interests of his bister Matilda an 
^ITfo^l^al succession, it was chiefly from 

that the King had reason to dread a new revoh.tion of government This no e , 

who was in Normandy when he received intelligence of fff®" that 

himself much embarrassed concerning the measures which he should pursue 1 th t 
d ffieult emergency To swear allegiance to the usurper appeared to him dis- 
ttmU and a breach of lus oath to Matilda: To refuse giving this pledge of 






194 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. L HUMS 

his fidelity, was to banish himself from England, and be totally incapacitated from 
serving the royal family, or contributing to their restoration. He offered Stephen 
to do him homage, and to take the oath of fealty ; but with an express condition 
that the King should maintain all his stipulations, and should never invade any of 
Robert’s rights or dignities : and Stephen, though sensible that this reserve, so 
unusual in itself, and so unbefitting the duty of a subject, was meant only to afford 
Robert a pretence for a revolt on the first favourable opportunity, was obliged, by 
the numerous friends and retainers of that nobleman, to receive him on those terms. 
The clergy, who could scarcely at this time be deemed subjects to the crown, imi¬ 
tated that dangerous example : They annexed to their oath of allegiance this 
condition, that they were only bound so long as the King defended the ecclesiastical 
liberties, and supported the discipline of the church. The barons, in return for 
their submission, exacted terms still more destructive of public peace, as well as of 
royal authority : many of them required the right of fortifying their castles, and of 
putting themselves in a posture of defence ; and the King found himself totally 
unable to refuse his consent to this exorbitant demand. All England was 
immediately filled with these fortresses, which the noblemen garrisoned either with 
their vassals, or with licentious soldiers, who flocked to them from all quarters. 
Unbounded rapine was exercised upon the people for the maintenance of these 
troops ; and private animosities, which had with difficulty been restrained by law, 
now breaking out without controul, rendered England a scene of uninterrupted 
violence and devastation. Wars between the nobles were carried on with the 
utmost fury in every quarter; the barons even assumed the right of coining money, and 
of exercising, without appeal, every act of j urisdiction ; and the inferior gentry, as 
well as the people, finding no defence from the laws during this total dissolution of 
sovereign authority, were obliged, for their immediate safety, to pay court to some 
neighbouring chieftain, and to purchase his protection, both by submitting to his 
exactions, and by assisting him in his rapine upon others. The erection of one 
castle proved the immediate cause of building many others ; and even those who 
obtained not the King’s permission, thought that they were entitled by the great 
principle of self-preservation, to put themselves on an equal footing with their 
neighbours, who commonly were also their enemies and rivals. The aristocratical 
power, which is usually so oppressive in the feudal governments, had now risen to 
its utmost height during the reign of a prince who, though endowed with vigour 
and abilities, had usurped the throne without the pretence of a title, and who was 
necessitated to tolerate in others the same violence to which he himself had been 
beholden for his sovereignty.” 


5G.— NO NORMANS! Thierry. 

Stephen of Blois was very popular with the Anglo-Normans, on account of his 
tried bravery, and his affable and liberal spirit. He promised, on receiving the 
crown, to restore to each noble the enjoyment and free use of the forests that king 
Henry, following the example of the two Williams, had appropriated to himself. 
The first years of the new reign were peaceful and happy, at least for the Norman 
race. The king was prodigal and magnificent ; he gave much to those about him ; 
and drew largely from the treasure that the Conqueror had amassed, and his two 
successors had added to. He alienated, and distributed as fiefs, the estates that 
William I. had reserved as his share of the Conquest, and which were known as the 
royal domains ; he created earls and independant governors of districts, formerly 
occupied, for the sole profit of the king, by royal prefects. Geoffrey of Anjou, the 
husband of Matilda, sold him peace for an annual pension of five thousand marks; 



THIERRY.] 


NO NORMANS! 


195 


JL iJ. • I 

and Robert of Gloucester, the natural son of the late king, who, at first, had mani¬ 
fested an intention of asserting the rights of his sister, founded upon the oath of 
the barons, took at the hands of Stephen the oaths of fidelity and homage. 

But this calm did not last long ; and, about the year 1137, some young barons, 
who had vainly demanded of the new king some of his lands and castles, set about 
taking them tv force of arms. Hugh Bigod seized the fortress of Norwich ; one 
Robert took that of Badington ; the king compelled them to restore them, but t 
spir^of exposition, once kindled, spread rapidly. Henry’s iUeg.tm.ato -n-^g 
broke the peace that he had sworn to Stephen ; he sent a message odrfan«^ 

Normandy, renouncing his whl he com 

sXed, C a°nd e above a Iil b] a decree of the pope, enjoining him to perform ‘ he “ 
bp had sworn to his sister Matilda, in the presence of their father. Thus s 

W ht the bhtn r^od ma th y shall nlver call me the deposed king.’ In order to 

y &JZ-Z3X sire: rss 

Flemings and Bretons^' once ^ divided into two hostile factions. 

The conquerors m Englan _„din 2 reigns when the sons 

The state of things became the same as in 1 Quarrels of their masters, and 

of the vanquished had raised themselves up in the quarrels ol ’ their 

had thrown the balance on one side or the a Stephen, the 

own condition. When similar b ast experience. In the quarrel 

Saxons kept themselves apart, , , declared neither for the reigning 

between Stephen and the partisans of MatilId‘ nor for the daughter 
king, who pretended that his cause was a ‘ for themselves ; and there 

ss-rr t tsr- rr 

srrr-r; - *•«»—™ - 

“is:™. - **. b.. *«• r« “ t “Sr r™* “s 

what class of men joined it, noi in w ' al ’ i ta 0 { 1 137 had renewed the 
out. We only learn from him of Wales an d Scotland ; 

ancient alliance of the Eng is pa r their liberated kingdom a 

and that they even intended to ^ of that country, the son of 

Scotchman, who was, perhaps Davi g without any mixture of 

Margaret and Malcolm, in whom the Saxon blood Ho irat in CO n- 

the Norman. The plot failed conceive a Suspicion of their 

fessing to Richard Lenoir, Bishop of E j,. = period, the boldest spirits 

design, or perhaps even avowing without first settling the 

never exposed themselves to an a PI ,are ° ourse of penitents was larger than 

rtate of their conscience ; and when th polit ical movement: by scruti- 

tsual, it was an almost certain indication of eomejo ^ clergy of the 

rr;» sssr stt esafts; -—* - - 




196 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY. 

questioned by the priest, were seldom able to keep their secret from a man whom 
they believed to have the power of binding and loosing them as well on earth as in 
heaven. The bishop of Ely made known his discovery to the other bishops and to 
the higher authorities, but, in spite of the promptitude of their measures, many of 
the principal conspirators, says the contemporary writer, had time to make their 
escape. They withdrew to Wales, hoping to excite this people to war against the 
Normans. 

This event took place sixty-six years after the last defeat of the insurgents of 
Ely, and seventy-two years after the battle of Hastings. Whether it may be that 
the chroniclers have not reported all that occurred, or that the link which bound 
the Saxons together, and made them a distinct people, could not after this be again 
cemented, we do not find, in the succeeding periods, any project conceived by the 
common accord of all the classes of the Anglo-Saxon population. The ancient 
English cry of “No Normans !” is no longer met with in the annals of history. 


57 .—THE BATTLE OF THE STANDABD. 

Thierry. 

For a long time numbers of emissaries of the English people had flocked to the 
court of the Scotch kings, who were nephews of the last of the Anglo-Saxon 
monarchs, to implore them, b}^ the memory of their uncle Edgar, to come to the 
assistance of the oppressed nation, to whom they were bound by the ties of kindred. 
But the sons of Malcolm Ken more were kings, and as such were little disposed, 
without any motive of personal interest, to support a nation in a revolt against 
royal authority. They were deaf to the complaints of the English, and to the sug¬ 
gestions of their own courtiers, during the life-time of Henry I., with whom they 
were also connected by his wife Matilda, the daughter of Malcolm. When Henry 
made the Norman barons swear to give the kingdom, after his death, to his daughter 
by Matilda, David, then king of Scotland, was present at the assembly, and took the 
oath with the Normans, as the vassal of Henry I.; but when the nobles of Eng¬ 
land, regardless of their vow, chose Stephen of Blois instead of Matilda, the king 
of Scotland began to think that the Saxon cause was the best ; he promised to 
assist them in their plot of exterminating all the Normans, and it may have been 
as a reward for this vague promise, that he stipulated, according to the rumour of 
the time, that if the enterprise succeeded he should be made king of England. 

The enfranchisement of the English did not take place, as we have seen, thanks 
to the vigilance of a bishop ; nevertheless the king of Scotland, who had only allied 
himself to this people because he entertained, on his own part, hostile views against 
the Anglo-Normans, assembled an army and marched towards the south. It was 
not in the name of the oppressed Saxon race that he made his entry into England, 
but in the name of his cousin Matilda, dispossessed, he said, by Stephen of Blois, 
usurper of the kingdom. 

The English people had no more affection for the wife of Geoffrey of Anjou, than 
for Stephen of Blois, but nevertheless the population nearest the borders of Scot¬ 
land, the men of Cumberland, Westmoreland, and of all the valleys watered by tho 
rivers that flow into the Tweed, impelled by the instinct which causes men to seize 
eagerly every means of relief, received the Scotch as friends, and joined their forces. 
The valleys, difficult of access, and hardly yet in subjection to the Normans, were 
in great part peopled by the Saxons, whose fathers had been banished in the time 
of the conquest. They came to the Scotch camp in great numbers, and without 
any order, on little mountain ponies, which were their only property. 

In general, with the exception of the knights of Norman or French origin, that 



THIERRY.] 


THE BATTLE OF THE STANDARD. 


197 


the king of Scotland brought in his train, and who wore complete and uniform sums 
of mail; the great part of his troops presented a most disorderly variety o arms 
and habilaments. The inhabitants of the eastern part of the lowlands, men of 
Danish or Saxon descent, formed the heavy infantry, armed witn amasses and 
great spears. The inhabitants of the west, and especially of Galloway who still 
retained strong marks of their British descent, were, like the ancient Britons with- 
out defensive armour, and carried long sharp-pointed javelins with sleudei lagi c 
shafts • lastly the true Scottish race, both mountaineers and islanders, wore bonnets 
adorned with the feathers of wild birds, and with large plaids fastened round the 
body by a shoulder-belt of leather, to which hung a broad-sword, called the day- 
more ■ they carried on the left arm a round buckler of light wood, covered wit 
thick hide ? and some of the island clans had armed themselves with two-handed 
battle-axes’ in the manner of the Scandinavians ; the armour of the chiefs was the 
same as that of the clansmen, the only distinctive mark being then lon 0 ei 
lighter illumes waving more gracefully than those of their letaineis. , , , , 

°The troops of the Scottish king, which were numerous and undisciplined held 
unresisted possession of all the country, situated ^ween the Tweed and tte 

a iL - r 

therefore no obstacle obstructed the progress of the Scotch ante as an old autli^ 
calls them. This army appears t» h ave committed ^ ^ J chu . 

which it fte lfr 0 md S received on the lances’ point ; but as they speak with 

theTr the inherent 

The principal Normans in the north, spread* a 

York, took advantage of the reports of t the Saxon inhabitants of the 

S “the H S umber, d f^r^Kred with the interest which they would natu- 

of the - 

- ° f st - cuthbert ° f 

Durham, St. John of Beverley and St. Wilfred prob ably hardly ever seen 

The popular standards, *^% 2T’ tlm Sumhes to berried to 
the light of day, were dragged out homtheauto at which the 

Elfertun (now Allerton), thirty-two miles and Walter Espee 

Norman chiefs resolved to await t e enemy^ brother Walter, of the county 

of the county of Nottingham pre vented * illness from 
of York were the commanders. T 1 f p)urtiam w ho had probably 

being there, and he sent in Ins p ace aou , ,, Scotch/ An instinct, half 

been expelled from his church by the mvasi ^ English inhabitants of the 

religious, half patriotic caused a great “ u “ be ^ Alle S rton) and to enlist them- 

neighbouring towns and plains to doc , 1 d ^ ^ foreign raC e. They no 

selves under the Saxon banners erecte } . of their ancestors, but were 

longer carried the great battle-axe, the fav°u t conqueat had effected 

armed with large bows, and arrows two cubits long. 




198 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY. 

this change, in two different ways : such of the natives as had submitted to serve 
in battle under their foreign masters, for bread, and for pay, had of course accus¬ 
tomed themselves to Norman tactics ; and those who, being more independent, 
had embraced the life of guerillas on the roads, and free hunters in the forests, had 
in the same manner laid aside the arms suitable for close combat, for others more 
capable of reaching the Norman knights, or the king’s deer. The sons of each 
having been, since their infancy, exercised in drawing the bow, England had be¬ 
come, in less than a century, the land of good archers, as Scotland was that of good 
spearsmen. 

Whilst the Scotch army was passing the river Tees, the Normans were actively 
preparing to receive its attack. They set up the mast of a ship on four wheels, and 
on it placed a small box containing the consecrated elements, and around this box 
were hung the banners which were to excite the English to fight with spirit. This 
standard of a kind very common in the middle ages, occupied the centre of the 
army during the battle. The flower of the Norman chivalry, says an ancient his¬ 
torian, stationed themselves around it, after having confederated together by faith 
and oath, and having sworn to remain united in defence of their territory, in life, 
and to the death. The Saxon archers flanked the two wings of the main body, and 
formed the front ranks. On the rumour of the approach of the Scots who were 
advancing in great disorder, but with rapidity, the Norman Raoul, bishop of Dur¬ 
ham, mounted upon an eminence, and, in the French tongue, spoke as follows :— 
“ Noble lords of Norman birth, you who make France tremble, and have conquered 
England, behold the Scots, after having done homage to you, now undertaking to 
drive you from your lands. But if our fathers, few in number, have subjected a 
great part of Gaul, shall we not vanquish these half-naked men, who have nothing 
to oppose to our lances and our swords but the skin of their own bodies, or a 
buckler of calf-skin. Their spears are long, it is true, but the wood is fragile, and 
the steel badly tempered. These inhabitants of Galloway have been heard to say, 
in their boasting, that the sweetest beverage to them was the blood of a Norman. 
Do you behave so that not one of them shall return to boast of having killed any 
Normans.” 

The Scotch army, with only a lance for standard, marched divided into several 
bodies. Young Henry, the son of the Scotch king, commanded the Lowlanders, 
and the English volunteers of Cumberland and Northumberland ; the king himself 
was at the head of all the mountain and island clans, and the knights of Norman 
origin, completely armed, formed his guard. One of these, called Robert de Brus, 
a man of advanced age, who held for the Scotch king, by reason of his fief of Anuan- 
dale, and had no cause for personal enmity against his countrymen of England, ap¬ 
proached the king at the moment when he was about to give the signal of attack, 
and with an air of melancholy, thus spoke to him, “ Oh, king, hast thou considered 
against whom thou art going to fight 1 It is against the Normans and the English, 
who have always served thee so well with advice and arms, and have assisted thee 
to bring in subjection thy people of the Gallic race. Thou thinkest thyself quite 
sure of the submission of these tribes ; thou hopest to be able to maintain them in 
subjection with the assistance only of thy Scotch men-at-arms ; but reflect that it 
is we who have reduced them to obedience, and that this is the cause of the hatred 
with which they are animated against our countrymen.” This discourse appeared to 
make a great impression upon the king of Scotland. But his nephew William, ex¬ 
claimed impatiently, “ These are the words of a traitor !” The old Norman only 
replied to this affront by immediately retracting, according to the forms of the age, 
bis oath of fealty and homage, and gallopped towards the enemy. 

Then the Highlanders who surrounded the king, raising their voices, shouted the 


THIERRY. J 


THE BATTLE OF THE STANDARD. 


199 


ancient name of their country, Alben ! Alien! This was the signal for the com¬ 
bat. The men of Cumberland, and of Liddisdale, and Teviotdale, made a firm quick 
charge upon the centre of the Norman army, and, as an ancient narrator expresses 
it broke it like a cobweb. But, being ili-supported by the other Scotch divisions, 
they could not reach the standard of the Anglo-Normans ; these latter formed 
a<r a in, and repulsed the assailants with loss, and, m the second charge, the ong 
iavelins of the Scots of the south-west were broken against the mailed hauociks 
and the shields of the Normans. The Highlanders then drew their broadswords to 
come to close combat ; but the Saxon archers, extending themselves on the flanks, 
assailed them with a shower of arrows, whilst the Norman knights charged t lem 
in the front, in close ranks, and with lances couched. “ It was a fine S1 ^’ 
a contemporary, “ to see these stinging flies start buzzing from the bows o t 

southern men, and darken the air like thick dust.” 

The Gaels hardy and brave, but little practised in regular evolutions, dispersed 
immediately that they found themselves incapable of breaking the enemy s ianks. 
The whole Scotch army, forced to make a retreat, drew back towards the ync. 
The conquerors did not pursue them beyond that river ; and the extent of country 
which had revolted on the approach of the Scotch, remained, notwithstanding their 
defeat free from the Norman dominion. For a long time after this battle, West¬ 
moreland and Northumberland were part of the Scotch kingdom ; the new po 1 ica 
state of these three provinces prevented the Anglo-Saxon character from ying ou 
there so quickly as in the southern parts of England. The national traditions and 
popular romances, survived and were perpetuated north of the Tyne ; from t cn 
the old English poetry, all traces of which had been lost in all places inhabite y 
the Normans, in 1 which a foreign poetry had replaced it, again appeared, at a latei 

time, in the southern provinces. 


58 


# _the invasion of maud. 


Tiiierey. 


Having been j-ited into England by her Mends, ^ 

22nd of Septern er’ m je. ^ h d Bristol Castle, which was held by her 

illegitimate ^rother^Ihjbert^Earl o/Gloucester. At the news of £ aMval of the 

**■*-> 'T.Ti'"”" "ri .ns 

part of the nobles of t and renewe d the oath that they had 

homage and allegiance tc> Stepn The ’ whole Noma n race in England seemed 

rcr ssts a## -ejsss 

friend, or his brother.” . 0 +p er t p e r j va l parties, 

Fresh bands of Brabanion s< ^ ^ifferenf ports, and various roads, to the gathering 

came with arms and baggage, y 1 ’ ., 0 mised them for their pay, 

points fixed by the King or by Matilda: eachi sidepromised them^ ^ 

the lands of the opposite faction. n 0Kel villages and their townships, 

Normans sold and under-sold their oman * ’ . Sev-ral of them made incur- 

together with the inhabitants and their’ P° s ~ a the horses, the oxen, 

sions on the domains of then ad\eisa , ‘ in the villages and took away 

the sheep, and the English, whom t cy seize. ev ° f ’ city or town 

in chains. The general terror was such, that n tne 





200 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[THIERRY, 


saw three or four horsemen approaching in the distance, they immediately took 
flight. 

This extreme alarm arose from the horrible reports which were spread of the fate 
of the men whom the Normans had seized and imprisoned in their castles. “ They 
carried off,” says the Saxon chronicle, “ all who they thought possessed any property, 
men and women, by day and by night ; and whilst they kept them imprisoned, 
they inflicted on them tortures, such as no martyr ever underwent, in order to 
obtain gold and silver from them. Some were suspended by their feet, their heads 
hanging over smoke, others were hung by their thumbs, with fire under their feet ; 
they pressed the heads of some with a cord, so tight as to force in the skull; others 
were thrown into pits full of snakes, toads, and all kinds of reptiles ; others were 
placed in the chamhre-n-crucir , the name that was given, in the Norman language to 
a short, narrow kind of chest, very shallow, and lined with sharp stones, in which 
the sufferer was pressed, until his limbs were all dislocated. 

“In most of the castles they kept a set of chains so heavy that two or three men 
could hardly lift them ; the unhappy being upon whom they were laid, was held up by 
an iron collar fixed in a post, and could neither sit, lie down, nor sleep. They killed 
many thousands of persons by hunger. They imposed tribute after tribute upon 
the towns and villages, calling this in their tongue, tenserie. When the citizens had 
nothing more to give them, they plundered and burnt their town. You might have 
travelled a whole day without finding a single soul in the towns, or a cultivated 
field. The poor died of hunger, and those who had formerly been well-off’ now 
begged their bread from door to door. Whoever had it in his power to leave 
England, did so. Never was a country delivered up to so many miseries and mis¬ 
fortunes, even in the invasions of the pagans it suffered less than now. Neither 
the cemeteries nor the churches were spared, they seized all they could, and then 
set fire to the church : to till the ground was useless. It was openly reported that 
Christ and his saints were sleeping.” 

The greatest terror reigned in the environs of Bristol, where the empress Matilda 
and her Angevins had established their head quarters. All the day through there 
were being brought into the town men bound and gagged, either with a piece of 
wood, or with a notched iron bit. There as constantly went out troops of soldiers 
in disguise, who, concealing their arms and their language under the English habit, 
scattered themselves over the populous districts, and mixed with the crowd, in the 
markets and in the streets ; suddenly they would seize any one who seemed from 
their appearance to be in easy circumstances, and carry them to their head-quarters, 
to set a ransom on them. King Stephen led his army first against Bristol; this town, 
which was strong and well-defended, resisted the royal army, and the soldiers, in 
revenge, devastated and burnt the environs. The king then attacked, one by one, 
and with more success, the Norman castles situated on the borders of Wales, nearly 
all the lords of which had declared against him. 

Whilst he was engaged in this long and harassing war, an insurrection broke out 
on the eastern side ; the fens of Ely, which had served as a refuge to the last of the 
free Saxons, became a camp for the Normans of the Anjou faction. Baldwin de 
Bevier and Lenoir, bishop of Ely raised entrenchments of stone and cement against 
Stephen, in the very place where Hereward had erected a fort of wood against king 
William. This locality, always formidable to the Norman authorities, on account 
of the facilities which it afforded for union and defence, had been placed, by 
Henry I. under the control of a bishop, who was to aid the count and viscount in 
their superintendance of the province. The first bishop of the new diocese of Ely 
was that Herve whom the Welsh had expelled from Bangor : the second was 
Lenoir, or Nigel, who frustrated the great conspiracy of the English, in 1137. It 




THIERRY.] 


THE INVASION OF MAUD. 


201 


was not for any personal zeal for king Stephen, but in a spirit of patriotism, as a 
Norman, that he then served the king against the Saxons, and as soon as t e 
Normans declared against Stephen, Lenoir joined them, and undertook to make the 
islands in his diocese a gathering-place for Matilda’s partisans. 

Stephen attacked his enemies in this camp, in the same manner that the Con 
queror had formerly attacked the Saxon refugees m that place. He constructed 
bridges of boats, over which his cavalry passed, and completely routed the soldiers 
of Baldwin of Reviers, and bishop Lenoir. The bishop fled to Gloucestei, w e 
the daughter of Henry X. then was, with her principal adherents. All her party in 
the west, encouraged by the king’s absence, repaired the breaches in then casUes^ 
or, converting the towers of the great churches into fortresses, filled them with 
engines of war; they dug trenches round, in the churchyards even so that the 
corpses were uncovered and the bones of the dead scattered about. The Noil . 
bishops did not scruple to take part in these military operations ; nor were they 
less active than others in torturing the English, to entrant ransom fiom them. 
They were seen, as in the first years of the conquest, mounted on war-horses, 
completely armed, with a lance or baton in their hands, superintending the works 

ami the attacks or drawing lots for a share of the booty. 

The bishops of Chester and of Lincoln distinguished themselves amongst the 
most warlike. The latter rallied the troops dispersed at the camp of Ely 
formed another army in the eastern coast, which king Stephen attacked, but with 
less success than the first; liis troops, victorious at Ely, were routed near Lincoln; 
abandoned by all around him, the king defended himself single-handed foi some 
time but was at last obliged to surrender ; he was taken to Gloucester, the quarters 
of the Countess of Anjou, who, by the advice of her council of war, had him 
imprisoned in the dungeon of Bristol Castle. This defeat was a death-blow to the 
royal cause. Stephen’s Norman partisans, seeing him vanquished and a captive, 
wont over in crowds to Matilda’s side. His own brother, Henry bishop of Win¬ 
chester declared for the victorious faction ; and the Saxon peasants, who detested 
both parties equally, took advantage of the misfortunes of the conquered sid e o 

^^Th^g^nX^aughte^of^econqueror^inade her triumphal entry into Winchester; 

brthop Henry received her at the gates, at the head of the clergy of a 1 the churches. 

She took possession of the regalia, as well as the treasure belonging to Stephen, and 

convoked^ meat council of Norman prelates, counts barons, ana knights The 

as emUy made Matilda queen, and the bishop who presided pronounced the following 

form • “ Having first, as is our duty, invoked the assistance of Almighty God, we 

elec as lady of England and Normandy, the daughter of lie glorious, rich good, 

a id pacific kino- Henry, and promise to render her fealty and support. But Queen 

Matifda’s good fortune soon made her disdainful and arrogant ; she ceased to take 
Matilda goo frienda and treate d harshly such of her adversaries, who 

tlie advice of he ’ Th n U thors of her elevation often met with a 

desired to be at P^ce with her The auto ^ before h 

refusal to any request they l This chUled the zea l 0 f her 

an old historian she did m ^ number withdrew from her, without, how- 

of a Saxon, and the Saxon citizens, fromadond entirely 

presence in their city wit i gi ea er a\ 011 enslaved by the conquest, made 

foreign descent; but the good wd of W y ^ ^ firsfc 

poll - tas - The 






f02 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERR1, 

citizens, whom the devastations of war, and Stephen’s exactions had reduced to such 
a state of distress that they were in immediate fear of a famine, implored the queen 
to have pity on them, and to delay the imposition of fresh taxes, until they were 
relieved from their present misery. u The king has left us nothing,” the deputies 
©f the citizens said to her in a submissive tone. “ I understand,” replied the 
daughter of Henry I., with a disdainful air, “ you have given all to my adversary, 
you have conspired with him against me, and you expect me to spare you.” The 
citizens of London being forced to pay the tax, took this opportunity of making a 
humble request to the queen. “ Restore to us,” was their demand, “ the good laws 
of thy great uncle, Edward, in the place of those of thy father, king Henry, which 
are bad and too harsh for us.” But, as though she were ashamed of her maternal 
ancestors, and had abjured her Saxon descent, Matilda was enraged at this request, 
treated those who had thus dared to address as if they had been guilty of the 
greatest insolence, and uttered terrible menaces against them. Wounded to the 
depths of the heart, but dissembling their vexation, the citizens returned to their hall 
of council, where the Normans, less suspicious than formerly, now allowed them to 
assemble, to arrange between themselves, by common accord, the sharing of the 
taxes ; for the government had adopted the custom of levying a general tax on each 
town, without troubling themselves as to the mode in which the demand was met 
by individual contributors. 

Queen Matilda was awaiting in full security, either in the Conqueror’s tower, or 
in William Rufus’s palace, at Westminster, the return of the citizen’s deputies, to 
offer her on their knees the sacks of gold that she had demanded from them, when 
suddenly the bells of the town sounded an alarm, and the streets and squares were 
filled with crowds of people. From each house sallied a man armed with the first 
warlike instrument on which he could lay his hand. An ancient writer compares 
the multitude which tumultuously gathered together, to bees issuing from the hive. 
The queen and her Norman and Angevin men-at-arms, seeing themselves sur¬ 
rounded, and not daring to risk, in the narrow crooked streets, a conflict in which 
superiority of arms and military science could be of no use to them, quickly mounted 
horse and fled. They had scarcely passed the last houses in the suburb, when a 
troop of English hastened to the apartments which they had inhabited, forced open 
the doors, and not finding them there, plundered all that they had left. The queen 
galloped towards Oxford, with her barons and knights ; who at intervals detached 
themselves, one by one, from the cortege, to make their escape with greater safety, 
alone, by cross-roads, and by-ways ; Matilda entered Oxford, accompanied by her 
brother, the Earl of Gloucester, and the small number of those who had found this 
road the most convenient for themselves, or who had overlooked their own safety 
in consideration for hers. 

In fact, there was little danger ; for the inhabitants of London, satisfied with 
having chased the new queen of England from their walls, did not attempt to 
pursue her. Their insurrection, the result of an outbreak of indignation, with no 
previously concerted plan, and unconnected with any other movement, was not the 
first step of a national insurrection. The expulsion of Matilda and her adherents, did 
not turn to the advantage of the English people, but to that of Steuhen’s partisans. 
The latter quickly re-entered London, occupied the city, and filled it with their 
troops, under the pretence of an alliance with the citizens. The wife of the captive 
king repaired to London, and took up her quarters there ; and all that the citizens 
ther gained was the privilege of enlisting to the number of a thousand men with 
casques and hauberks, among the troops that assembled in the name of Stephen of 
Blois, and of serving as auxiliaries of the Normans under William and Roger de la 
Chesnage. 


I 


THE INVASION OF MAUD. 


203 


THIERRY.] 

The bishop of Winchester, seeing his brother’s party regaining some strength, 
deserted the opposite side, and declared again for the prisoner at Bristol ; he set 
up Stephen’s banner on Windsor Castle, and on his episcopal residence, which he 
had fortified and embattled like a castle. Robert of Gloucester and the partisans 
of Matilda came and laid siege to it. The garrison of the castle, built m the middle 
of the town, set fire to the houses to annoy the besiegers ; and, at the same time, 
the array of London, attacking them unawares, obliged them to take refuge m the 
churches, which were then set fire to, in order to drive them out. Eobert of 
Gloucester was taken prisoner, and his followers dispersed. Barons and knights, 
throwing away their arms, and marching on foot, in order not to be recogmsei 
traversed the towns and villages under false names. But besides the partisans of 
the king, who pressed them closely, they encountered other enemies on their road, 
the Saxon peasants and serfs, who were as remorseless to them m their defeat as 
they had formerly been to the opposite faction. They arrested the progress of 
these proud Normans, who, in spite of their attempts at disguise were betrayed by 
their language, and drove them along with whips. The bishop of Canterbury, some 
other bishops, and numbers of great lords were maltreated in this manner and 
stripped of their clothing. Thus this war was to the English a cause both o 
misery and of joy, of that frantic joy which is experienced, in the midst of suffer- 
Z * Z rendering evil for evil. The grand-son of a man slam at Hastings would 
feel’ a moment’s pleasure when he found the life of a Norman in his power, and the 
Englishwomen, wdio had plied the distaff in the service of the high Norman ladies, 
joyfully recounted the story of the sufferings of queen Matilda on her departme 
from Oxford : how she fled, accompanied only by three men-at-arms, m the night, 
fnnt through the snow and how she had passed, in great alarm, close to 
enemy s ^postsfClearing the voice of the sentinels, and the sound of the military 

signals. 


59.—STEPHEN AND MAUD. Keats. 

“ As soon as Keats had finished < Otho,’ Mr. Brown suggested to him the character and 
reign of King Stephen, beginning with his defeat by the Empress » auc, an e “ ^ 
the death of his son Eustace, as a fine subject for an English historical tragedy This Keats 

££& — .*• “> *• — 

hundred and thirty lines. 

Scene I. Field of Battle. 

Alarum. Enter King Stephen, Knights, and Soldiers. 

Stephen. If shame can on a soldier’s vein-swoll’n front 
Spread deeper crimson than the battle s toil, 

Blush in your casing helmets ! for see, see ! 

Yonder my chivalry, my pride of war, 

Wrench’d with an iron hand from firm array, 

Are routed loose upon the plashy meads,. 

Of honour forfeit. O, that my known voice 
Could reach vour dastard ears, and fright yon moie . 

Fly, cowards; fly ! Glocester is at your hacks ! 

Throw your slack bridles o’er the flurried manes, 

Ply well the rowel with faint trembling heels, 

Scampering to death at last ! 

First Knight. ® nem ^ 

Bears his flaunt standard close upon their rear. 









204 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[KEATSl 


Second Knight. Sure of a bloody prey, seeing the fens 
Will swamp them girth-deep. 

Stephen . Over head and ears, 

No matter ! Tis a gallant enemy ; 

How like a comet he goes streaming on. 

But we must plague him in the flank,—hey, friends ? 

We are well breath’d,—follow ! 

Enter Earl Baldwin and Soldiers , as defeated. 

Stephen. De Redvers ! 

What is the monstrous bugbear that can fright 
Baldwin ? 

Baldwin. No scare-crow, but the fortunate star 
Of boisterous Chester, whose fell truncheon now 
Points level to the goal of victory. 

This way he comes, and if you ■would maintain 
Your person unaffronted by vile odds, 

Take horse, my lord. 

Stephen. And which way spur for life 1 

Now I thank Heaven I am in the toils, 

That soldiers may bear witness how my arm 
Can burst the meshes. Not the eagle more 
Loves to beat up against a tyrannous blast, 

Than I to meet the torrent of my foes. 

This is a brag,'—be’t so,—but if I fall 
Carve it upon my scutcheon’d sepulchre. 

On, fellow soldiers ! Earl of Redvers, back 
Not twenty Earls of Chester shall brow-beat 

The diadem. [Exeunt. Alarum. 

Scene II. Another part of the Field. 

Trumpets sounding a Victory. Enter Glocester. Knights, and Forces. 
Glocester. Now may we lift our bruised visors up, 

And take the flattering freshness of the air, 

While the wide din of battle dies away 
Into times past, yet to be echoed sure 
In the silent pages of our chroniclers. 

First Knight. Will Stephen’s death be mark’d there, my good lord, 
Or that we gave him lodging in yon towers ? 

Glocester. Fain would I know the great usurper’s fate. 

Enter tivo Captains severally. 

First Captain. My lord ! 

Second Captain. Most noble earl ! 

First Captain. The king— 

Second Captain. The empress greets— 

Glocester. What of the king 1 

First Captain. He sole and lone maintains 

A hopeless bustle ’mid our swarming arms, 

And with a nimble savageness attacks, 

Escapes, makes fiercer onset, then anew 
Eludes death, giving death to most that dare 
Trespass within the circuit of his sword ! 

He must by this have fallen. Baldwin is taken ; 


KFA.TS.1 


STEPHEN AND MAUD. 


205 


* 


And for the Duke of Bretagne, like a stag 
He flies, for the Welsh beagles to hunt down. 

God save the Empress ! 

Glocester. Now our dreaded queen: 

What message from her Highness 1 

Second Captain. Boyal Maud 

From the throng’d towers of Lincoln hath look d down, 
Like Pallas from the walls of Ilion, 

And seen her enemies havock’d at her feet. 

She greets most noble Glocester from her heart, 
Intreating him, his captains, and brave knights, 

To grace a banquet. The high city gates 
Are envious which shall see your triumph pass , 

The streets are full of music. 

Enter Second Kniglit. 

Glocester. Whence come you ? 

Second Knight. From Stephen, my good prince,— 


Stephen ! Stephen! . , . 9 

Glocester. Why do you made such echoing of his name . 
Second Knight. Because I think, my lord, he is no man, 
But a fierce demon, ’nointed safe from wounds, 

And misbaptised with a Christian name. 

Glocester. A mighty soldier !—Does he still hold on 
Second Knight. He shames our victory. His valour stm 
Keeps elbow-room amid our eager swords, 

And holds our bladed falchions all aloof— 

His gleaming battle-axe being slaughter-sick, 

Smote on the morion of a Flemish knight, 

Broke short in his hand ; upon the which he flung 
The heft away with such a vengeful force, 

It paunch’d the Earl of Chester’s horse, who then 
Spleen-hearted came in full career at him 

Glocester Did no one take him at a vantage ien • 

Second Knight. Three then with tiger leap upon him flew, 
Whom, with his sword swift-drawn and nimbly held, 

He stung away again, and stood to breathe, 

Smiling. Anon upon him rush’d once more 
A throng of foes, and in this renew’d strife 
Mv sword met his and snapp’d off at the hilt. 

3 Glocester. Come, lead me to this man—and let us move 
In silence, not insulting his sad doom 
With clamorous trumpets. To the Empress bear 
My salutation as befits the time. 


tt a /^7„„W/>/i. /v rl WnrCCA. 


Scene III. The Field of Battle. 

Enter Stephen unarmed. 

Stephen. Another sword ! And what if I could seize 
One from Bellona’s gleaming armoury, 

Or choose the fairest of her sheaved spears . 

Where are my enemies 1 Here, close at han , 

Hers oome the testy brood. 0, for a sword . 





206 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[KEATSt 


I’m faint—a biting sword ! A noble sword ! 

A hedge-stake—or a ponderous stone to hurl 
With brawny vengeance, like the labourer Cain. 
Come on ! Farewell my kingdom, and all hail 
Thou superb, plumed, and helmeted renown, 

All hail—I would not truck this brilliant day 
To rule in Pylos with a Nestor’s beard— 

Come on ! 


Enter Be Kaims and Knights , Sc. 

Be Kaims. Is’t madness or a hunger after death 
That makes thee thus unarm’d throw taunts at us 1 — 

Yield, Stephen, or my sword’s point dips in 
The gloomy current of a traitor’s heart. 

Stephen. Do it, De Kaims, I will not budge an inch. 

Be Kaims. Yes, of thy madness thou shalt take the meed. 

Stephen. Darest thou 1 

Be Kaims. How dare, against a man disarm’d ? 

Stephen. What weapons has the lion but himself ? 

Come not near me, De Kaims, or by the price 
Of all the glory I have won this day, 

Being a king, I will not yield alive 
To any but the second man of the realm, 

Robert of Glocester. 

Be Kaims. Thou shalt vail to me. 

Stephen. Shall I, when I have sworn against it, sir ? 

Thou think’st it brave to take a breathing king, 

That, on a court-day bow’d to haughty Maud, 

The awed presence-chamber may be bold 
To whisper, there’s the man who took alive 
Stephen—me—prisoner. Certes, De Kaims, 

The ambition is a noble one. 

Be Kaims . ’Tis true, 

And, Stephen, I must compass it. 

Stephen. No, no, 

Do not tempt me to throttle you on the gorge, 

Or with my gauntlet crush your hollow breast, 

Just when your knighthood is grown ripe and full 
For lordship. 

A Soldier. Is an honest yeoman’s spear 
Of no use at a need ? Take that. 

Stephen. Ah, dastard ! 

Be Kaims. What, you are vulnerable ! my prisoner 

Stephen. No, not yet. I disclaim it, and demand 
Death as a sovereign right unto a king 
Who ’sdains to yield to any but his peer, 

If not in title, yet in noble deeds, 

The Earl of Glocester. Stab to the hilt, De Kaims, 

For I will never by mean hands be led 

From this so famous field. Do you hear ! Be quick! 

Trumpets. Enter the Earl of Chester and Knighu, 



KEATS.] 


STEPHEN AND MAUD. 


207 


Scene IY.— A Presence Chamber. 

Queen Maud in a Chair of State, the Earls of Glocester and Chester , Lords, Attendants. 

Maud. Glocester, no more : I will behold that Boulogne : 

Set him before me. Not for the poor sake 
Of regal pomp and a vain-glorious hour, 

As thou with wary speech, yet near enough, 

Hast hinted. 

Glocester. Faithful counsel have I given ; 

If wary, for your Highness benefit. 

Maud. The Heavens forbid that I should not think so. 

For by thy valour have I won this realm, 

Which by thy wisdom I will ever keep. 

To sage advisers let me ever bend 
A meek attentive ear, so that they treat 
Of the wide kingdom’s rule and government, 

Not trenching on our actions personal. 

Advis’d, not school’d, I would be ; and henceforth 
Spoken to in clear, plain, and open terms, 

Not side-ways sermon’d at. 

Glocester. Then in plain terms, 

Once more for the fallen king 

Maud. Your Pardon, brother, 

I would no more of that \ for, as I said, 

’Tis not for worldly pomp I wish to see 
The rebel, but as dooming judge to give 
A sentence something worthy of his guilt. 

Glocester. If’t must be so, I’ll bring him to your presence. 

Exit Glocester. 

Aland. A meaner summoner might do as well— 

My Lord of Chester, is’t true what I hear 
Of Stephen of Boulogne, our prisoner, 

That he, as a fit penance for his crimes, 

Eats wholesome, sweet, and palatable food 
Off Glocester’s golden dishes—drinks pure wine, 

Lodges soft 1 

Chester. More than that, my gracious Queen, 

Has anger’d me. The noble Earl, methinks, 

Full soldier as he is, and without peer 
In counsel, dreams too much among his books. 

It may read well, but sure tis out of date 
To play the Alexander with Darius. 

Maud. Truth ! I think so. By Heavens it shall not bust 
Chester. It would amaze your Highness now to mark 
How Glocester overstrains his courtesy 
To that crime-loving rebel, that Boulogne 

Maud. That ingrate ! . , 

Chester. For whose vast ingratitude 

To our late sovereign lord, your noble sire, 

The generous Earl condoles in his mishaps, 

And with a sort of lackeying friendliness. 

Talks off the mighty frowning from his brow. 



208 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[K-CATJ. 


Woos him to hold a duet in a smile, 

Or, if it please him, play an hour at chess.— 

Maud. A perjur’d slave ! 

Chester. And for his perjury, 

Glocester has fit rewards—nay, I believe, 

He sets his bustling household’s wits at work 
For flatteries to ease this Stephen’s hours, 

And make a heaven of his purgatory ; 

Adorning bondage with the pleasant gloss 
Of feasts and music, and all idle shows 
Of indoor pageantry ; while syren whispers, 
Predestin’d for his ear, ’scape as half check’d 
From lips the courtliest and the rubiest, 

Of all the realm, admiring of his deeds. 

Maud. A frost upon his summer ! 

Chester. A Queen’s nod 

Can make his June December. Here he comes. 

***** 


60 .—THE FEUDAL SYSTEM.—I. 

Guizot. 

A good proof that, in the tenth century, the feudal system was necessary, and 
the only social state then possible, is the universality of its establishment. Where- 
ever barbarism ceased, every thing took the feudal form. At first, men saw in it 
nothing but the triumph of chaos. All unity, all general civilization vanished ; on 
all sides society was seen to dismember itself, and a number of small, obscure, 
isolated, and incoherent societies to arise in its place. This appeared to contem¬ 
poraries the dissolution of all things, universal anarchy. Consult either the poets 
or the chroniclers of that time ; they all believed themselves at the end of the 
world. It was, however, a new and real society which commenced, the feudal 
society, which was so necessary, so inevitable, so much the only possible conse¬ 
quence of the anterior state, that every thing was merged in it, and adopted its 
form. Even those elements which appeared the most foreign to this system, the 
Church, municipalities, royalty, were forced to accommodate themselves to it ; the 
churches became suzerains and vassals, the towns had lords and vassals, royalty 
was disguised under suzerainship. Every thing was given in fief ; not only lands, 
but certain rights, the right of felling in the forests, the right of fishing: the 
churches gave their perquisites in fief, their gains by baptisms, and the churching 
of women. Water and money were given in fief. In the same way that all the 
general elements of society entered into the feudal frame, so the smallest details, 
the least important acts of common life came under the ojjeration of feudalism. 

In seeing the feudal form thus take possession of all things we are inclined to 
believe, in the first moment, that the essential vital principle of feudalism pre¬ 
vailed every where. This is a great mistake. In taking the feudal form, the in¬ 
stitutions, the elements of society which were not analogous to the feudal system, 
did not renounce their peculiar nature and principles. The feudal church did not 
cease to be animated and governed, at bottom, by the theocratic principle ; and in 
order to make this principle the prevailing one, it laboured incessantly, now in con¬ 
cert with the royal power, now with the pope, now with the people, to destroy this 
system, of which, so to speak, it bore the livery. It was the same with royalty, 
and with the corporations; in the one, the monarchical, in the othe*r, the demo- 















THE FEUDAL SYSTEM. 


209 


GUIZCT.] 

cratic principle, continued, in reality, to rule. Despite their feudal garb, these 
various elements of European society constantly laboured to free themselves from 
a form foreign to their true nature, and to assume that which corresponded with 
their peculiar and vital principle. 

Having established the universality of the feudal form, we must avoid concluding 
from this the universality of the feudal principle, and studying feudalism indifferently 
wherever we meet with its physiognomy. To know and comprehend this system 
perfectly, to distinguish and judge of its effects with reference to modern civilization, 
we must examine it where the principle and form are in harmony ; we miust study 
it in the hierarchy of lay possessors of fiefs, in the community of the conquerors of 
the European territory. There we find the true feudal society ; in that relation we 
will now consider it. 

I spoke just now of the importance of moral questions, and of the necessity of 
not avoiding any such. There is another order of considerations, entirely opposed 
to these, and which are in general too much neglected ; I mean the material con¬ 
dition of society, the material changes in the being and living of mankind, produced 
by a fresh event, by a revolution, by a new social state. This has not been always 
sufficiently considered ; it has not been sufficiently enquired what modifications 
these great crises of the world made in the material existence of men, in the mate¬ 
rial aspect of their relations. These modifications have more influence on general 
society than is supposed. Who does not know how much the influence of climate 
has been studied, and how much importance is attached to it by Montesquieu. If 
we consider the direct influence of climate upon men, it is, perhaps, not so exten¬ 
sive as has been supposed ; it is, at any rate, vague, and difficult to discover. But 
the indirect influence of climate, that which results, for example, from the fact that 
in a warm country, men live in the open air, whilst in a cold country, they shut 
themselves in the interior of their habitations, that here they live on one kind Oi 
food, there on another, are facts of extreme importance, and which, by simply 
changing material life, act powerfully on civilization. Every gieat leiolution pio- 
duces in the social state modifications of this kind, which should be carefully con¬ 
sidered. 

The establishment of the feudal system caused one of these modifications, tho 
importance of which must be allowed. It altered the distribution of the inhabi 
tants on the face of the land. Until then, the owners of the land, the sovereign 
population, lived in united masses, more or less numerous, either settled in the 
interior of the towns, or wandering in bands, through the country. Feudalism caused 
these men to become isolated, each in his own habitation, at gieat distances fiom 
each other. You will perceive, at a glance, what influence this change necessarily 
exercised on the character and the course of civilization. The social preponder¬ 
ance, the government of society suddenly passed from the towns to the country ; 
private property took precedence of public property, private life of public life. Such 
was the first effect, an effect purely material, of the triumph of feudal society. The 
further we investigate it, the more clearly will the consequences of this sing e ac 

be unfolded before our eyes. . . 

Let us examine this society in itself, and see what part it has played in the 
history of civilization. Let us first take feudalism in its most simple, its primitive, 
fundamental element; let us consider the case of a single possessor of a fief, m his 
domain; let us see what will be the position, and the duties of all those who com¬ 
pose the little society by which he is surrounded. 

He establishes himself in an isolated, elevated situation, which Ins first care is to 
render safe and strong; he there constructs what he will call his castle. With 
whom does he establish himself ? With his wife and children ; perhaps some free 

P 



210 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[GUIZOT. 


men, who have not become proprietors, have attached themselves to his person, 
and continue to live with him, at his table. These are the inhabitants of the in¬ 
terior of the castle. All around, at the foot, are grouped a little population of 
colonists and serfs, who cultivate the land belonging to the holder of the fief. In 
the midst of this inferior population religion plants a church, and establishes a 
priest. In the early days of the feudal system this priest was generally, at the 
same time the chaplain of the castle, and the pastor of the village ; in time the two 
characters became distinct; and the village had its pastor living there, beside his 
church. This was the elementary feudal society, the feudal molecule, so to speak. 
It is this element which we have now to examine ; we must do so, in the two points 
of view from which it is necessary to regard all facts. What have been its results 
towards the development, first, of man, secondly, of society. 

We are quite right in examining this little society which I have just described, 
on these two points, and in placing faith in the result; for it is the type, the faith¬ 
ful image, of the whole feudal society. The lord, the people on his domains, and 
the priest, are the features of feudalism, on a great as well as a small scale, separat¬ 
ing from it royalty and the towns, which are distinct and foreign elements. 

The first fact which strikes me in considering this little society, is the prodigious 
importance which the possessor of the fief must have had, .in his own eyes, and in 
the eyes of those who surrounded him. The sentiment of personality, of individual 
liberty, was supreme in the barbaric life. Here it was entirely different: it was no 
longer only the liberty of the man, of the warrior ; it was the importance of the 
proprietor, the chief of the family, the master. This position necessarily gave rise 
to an impression of immense superiority : a superiority entirely personal, and very 
different from any we meet with in the course of other civilizations. I will give 
a proof of this. I take, in the ancient world, a grand aristocratic position, a Roman 
patrician, for example : like the feudal lord, the Roman patrician was the chief of 
the family, the master and superior. He was, besides, a religious magistrate, the 
pontiff in. his family. But the importance of a religious magistrate was conferred 
on him from without; it was not an importance purely personal and individual ; 
he received it from on high ; he was the delegate of the Divinity ; the interpreter 
of the religious creeds. The Roman patrician was, besides, the member of a cor¬ 
poration which lived united in the same place, a- member of the senate ; this again 
was an importance which came to him from without, from his corporation, an ex¬ 
traneous, borrowed importance. The greatness of the ancient aristocrats, associated 
with a religious and political character, was rather that of the position, of the cor¬ 
poration in general, than of the individual. That of the possessor of a fief was 
entirely individual; he owed nothing to any one ; all his rights, all his power was 
derived from himself. He was not a religious magistrate, he was not a member of 
a senate ; all his importance was contained in his own person ; all that he was, he 
was of himself, in his own name. What an influence such a situation must have 
exercised upon him who occupied it! What personal haughtiness, what prodigious 
pride, to be plain, what insolence must have arisen in his soul! Above him no 
superior of whom he was the representative and interpreter; beside him no equal; 
no powerful general law oppressed him ; there was no external power which could 
control his will; he felt no curb but the limits of his strength, and the presence of 
danger. Such was the moral influence of this situation on the character of him 
who held it. 

I proceed now to a second consequence, also most important, and too little con¬ 
sidered, the particular turn of the feudal family spirit. 

Let us glance over the various family systems ; we will first take the patriarchal 
family, of which the Bible and the oriental monuments give the typo. This family 


i 
















THE FEUDAL SYSTEM. 


211 


3UIZ0T.] 

was very numerous ; it was a tribe. The chief, the patriarch, lived with his 
children, his near relatives, the various generations which were gathered around 
him, all his kindred and his servants, and he not only lived, with them, but he had 
the same interests, the same occupations, he led the same life. Was not this the 
position of Abraham, of the patriarchs'? is it not that of the chiefs of the Arab 
tribes, who still keep up the form of the patriarchal life ? 

Another family system presents itself, the clan , a small society, the type of which 
we must seek for in Scotland, and Ireland, and through which a great portion of 
the European world has probably passed. This is no longer the patriarchal family. 

jg oreat difference here between the situation of the chief and that of the 
rest of the population 5 he did not even lead the same life 5 the greater pait tilled 
and served ; he was idle, and a warrior. But their origin was the same ; they all 
bore the same name ; the ties of kindred, ancient traditions, mutual reminiscences, 
similar affections established between all the members of a clan a moial bond, a 
kind of equality. 

These are the two principal types of the family life with which history furnishes 
us. Is this then, the feudal family ? Evidently not. It seems, at first, to have 
some affinity with the clan, but the difference is greater than the resemblance. 
The population which surrounded the holder of a fief was entirely unconnected with 
him ; they did not bear his name ; between them and him there was no affinity, 
no bond either historical or moral. Neither was it the same as the patriarchal 
family. The possessor of a fief did not lead the same life, did not engage in the 
same occupations as those who surrounded him ; he was idle and a wanioi, whilst 
the others were labourers. The feudal family was not numeious , it was not a 
tribe * it confined itself to the family, properly so called, the wife and children ; 
they lived apart from the rest of the population, in the interior of the castle. The 
colonists and serfs had no part with them ; their origin was different, the inequality 
in their position was prodigious. Five or six individuals, in a situation at once 
superior and estranged from the rest, composed the feudal family. It must 
obviously have been invested with a peculiar charactei. It was nanow, concen¬ 
trated constantly on the defensive, constantly forced to distrust, or, at least, to 
avoid even its retainers. Domestic life would, of course, become of great importance. 

I am aware that the brutality of the passions, and the custom for the chief to spend 
his time in war or the chase, were great obstacles to the development of the domestic 
life But this obstacle would be overcome ; the chief necessarily returned habitually 
to his home • he always found there his wife and children, and few besides them ; 
thev would remain his only permanent society ; with them alone he would share 
Ei'/mWsts his fate. It was impossible that domestic existence should not 
al"at influence. Proofs of this abound. Was it not in the heart of the 
feudal family that the importance of women was developed ? In all ancient societies, 
I do not speak of those in which the family spirit did not exist, but of those where 
it was powerful, in the patriarchal life, for instance, women did not hold nearly so 
high a place as they acquired in Europe under the feudal system. It was to the 
development, the preponderance of domestic manners inevitable m feudalism that 
they chiefly owed this change, this advance in their position. The cause of this 
has been sought in the peculiar manners of the ancient Germans, in the national 
respect which in the midst of their forests, they are said to have borne towards 
women German patriotism has founded on a sentence of Tacitus I know not 
what superiority, what primitive and ineffaceable purity of manners, in the relation 
of the t VO sexes in the German race. Mere fancies. Sentences similar to that of 
Tacitus sentiments and customs like those of the ancient Germans are found in the 
recitals of numbers of observers of savage and barbarous nations. There is nothing 



212 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[GUIZOT. 

primitive in it, nothing peculiar to one race. It was in the effects of a strongly 
determined social system, in the progress, in' the preponderance of domestic life 
that the importance of women in Europe originated ; and the preponderance of the 
domestic life became, very early, an essential feature of the feudal system. 

A second fact, a fresh proof of the empire of the domestic life, equally charac¬ 
terises the feudal family : this is the spirit of inheritance, of perpetuation, which 
was evidently all-powerful. The spirit of hereditary right is inherent in the family 
spirit: but it has nowhere been so fully developed as in feudalism. This proceeded 
from the nature of the property with which the family was incorporated. The fief 
was not like any other property ; it constantly needed a possessor who could defend 
it, work for it, acquit himself of the obligations inherited with the domain, and 
thus maintain it in its rank in the general association of the masters of the country. 
From this sprang a kind of identity between the actual possessor of the fief and 
the fief itself, and all the generations of its future possessors. 

This circumstance contributed greatly to strengthen and draw closer the family 
ties, already rendered so powerful by the nature of the feudal family. 


CL—THE FEUDAL SYSTEM.—II. 

Guizot. 

I now leave the seignorial dwelling, and descend amongst the little population 
that surrounds it. Here, everything has a different aspect. The nature of man is 
so good, so fertilizing, that when a social position has lasted for some time, it 
establishes between those who are connected by it, whatever may be conditions of 
the connexion, a kind of moral bond, sentiments of protection, benevolence, and 
affection. Thus it was in feudalism. No doubt, in the course of time there may 
have sprung up some moral relations, some habits of affection, between the colonists 
and the possessor of the fief. But this must have happened in spite of their 
relative position, not from its influence. Considered in itself, the position was 
radically bad. There was nothing morally common between the possessor of the 
fief and the colonists ; they were part of his domain, they were his property ; and 
under this word property are comprised all the rights which we now call rights of 
public sovereignty, as well as the rights of private property, the right of imposing 
laws, taxes, and punishments, as well as that of disposing of, and selling. As far 
as this can be said of the relative position of man to man in any case, there were 
between the lord and the cultivators of his domains, no rights, no guarantees, no 
society. 

This was, I fancy, the cause of that truly intense and invincible hatred with 
which the people have, at all times, regarded the feudal system, the remembrance of 
it, its very name. It is not an unexampled case for men to submit to oppressive 
despotisms, and become accustomed to them, even so far as almost to prefer them. 
Theocratic and monarchical despotism have more than once obtained the approbation, 
almost the affection of the population submitted to them. Feudal despotism has 
always been repulsive, odious ; it has oppressed the destinies, but never reigned 
over the souls of men. The reason is, that in the theocracy and the monarchy, the 
power is exercised in virtue of certain persuasions common to the master, and to 
the subjects ; it is the representative, the minister of another power, superior to all 
human powers ; it speaks and acts in the name of the Divinity, or of a general idea, 
not in the name of man himself, of man alone. Feudal despotism is quite another 
thing ; it is the power of an individual over an individual, the dominion of the 
personal and capricious will of a man. It is, perhaps, the only tyranny, which, to 
his eternal honour, man will never consent to accept. Whenever he sees in his 







THE FEUDAL SYSTEM. 


213 


3UIZ0T.] 

ruler, a mere man, when the will which oppresses him is only a human will, 
individual as his own, he is offended, and endures the yoke with indignation. Such 
was the true, distinctive character of the feudal power ; and such is the origin of 
the antipathy which it never ceased to inspire. 

The religious element which was associated with it was little calculated to 
lighten the burden. I do not fancy that the influence of the priest was much, in 
the little society which I have described, nor that he was very successful in legiti¬ 
mating the connection between the inferior population audits lord. The church 
has exercised a very great influence over European civilization, but this it has done 
by proceeding in a general manner, by changing the general dispositions of mankind. 
When we examine closely into the little feudal society, properly so called, we find 
the influence of the priest between the lord and the colonists to be hardly anything. 
Most frequently he was himself as rough and inferior as a serf, and very little able, 
either by situation or disposition, to oppose the arrogance of the lord. No. doubt, 
as he was only called upon to sustain and develope some moral life in the inferior 
population, he was dear and useful to them on this account, and he probably 
diffused something of consolation and life ; but he could do, and did, I conceive, 
very little for their fortune. 

I have examined the elementary feudal society; I have placed before you the 
principal consequences which might accrue from it, either to the possessor of the 
fief himself, to his family, or to the population congregated around him. Let us 
now leave these narrow bounds. The population of the fief was not confined to 
the territory, there were other societies, analogous or different, to which it bore 
relation. What influence did this general society to which it belonged exercise 

over civilization ? , 

I will make a short observation before replying : it. is true that both the pos¬ 
sessor of the fief and the priest belonged to a general society, they had at a distance, 
numerous relations. It was not the same with the colonists, and serfs : every time 
that, to designate the rural population, at this period, we employ a general word, 
which seems to imply one and the same society, the word people, for example, we 
sneak untruly. There was for this population no general society ; its existence was 
entirely local. Beyond the territory which they inhabited the colonists had no 
connexion with any one, were neither bound to any one, or to anything. There 
was for them no common destiny, no common country ; they did not form a people 
When we speak of the feudal association as a whole, it is the possessois of fiefs 

“‘Lefus seewhatTere the relations of the petty feudal society with the general 
society with which it was connected, and what consequences these relations would 

•nrobablv have on the development of civilization. . 

1 You know what ties' hound the possessors of fiefs among themselves, what relations 
were attached to their property, what were the obligations of service on the one part 
and protection on the other. I shall not enter into the details of these obligations it 
enough that you have a general idea of them. From them there was necessarily 

mXited in the mind of each possessor of a fief a certain number of moral ideas 
and sentiments ideas of duty, sentiments of affection. It is obvious that the pnn- 
ciple of fidelity’ of devotion, of loyalty to engagements, and all the sentiments con- 
nectcd with these, must have been developed and maintained by the relations of 

the possessors of fiefs among themselves. , r themselves 

These obligations, duties and sentiments, endeavoured to conveit themselves 

hffo rights and institutions. Everyone knows that feudalism esiic o h gu 
be Hv°the extent of the services due from the possessor of the fief to his suze¬ 
rain ; what were the services ho might expect in return; in what cases the vassal 




2i4 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [GUIZOT. 

owed military or pecuniary aid to his suzerain ; in what form the suzerain ought 
to obtain the consent of his vassals for services to which they were not bound by 
the simple possession of their fief. Attempts were made to place all these rights 
under the guarantee of institutions the object of which was to ensure respect to¬ 
wards them. Thus, the seignorial jurisdictions were to dispense justice between 
the possessors of fiefs, upon claims carried before their common suzerain. Thus, 
every lord of any importance assembled his vassals in parliament, to treat with 
them on matters which required their consent or concurrence. There were, in 
short, a collection of political, judicial, and military powers, by which they attempted 
to organise the feudal system, to convert the relations of the possessors of fiefs into 
rights and institutions. 

But these rights and institutions had no reality, no guarantee. 

If we inquire what is the nature of a guarantee, a political guarantee, we arrive 
at the perception that its fundamental character is the constant presence, in the 
midst of the society, of a will, a power with the inclination and the ability to im¬ 
pose a law upon individual wills and powers, to make them observe the common 
rule, and respect the general right. 

There are only two possible systems of political guarantees : there must either 
be a particular will, and power, so superior to all others, that none can resist it, 
and that all are compelled to submit to it. as soon as it interferes ; or else a public 
power, and will, the result of the concurrence and development of individual wills, 
which must likewise be in a condition, when it has issued from them, to rule over 
and obtain respect from all. 

Such are the only two possible systems of political guarantees : the despotism of 
an individual, or of a body, or free government. When we review all systems, we 
find that they are all included under one or other of these. 

Well, neither one nor the other existed, or could exist, under the feudal system. 

Doubtless, the possessors of fiefs were not all equal among themselves ; there 
were many more powerful than the rest, and many powerful enough to oppress the 
veaker. But there was not one, to begin with the highest suzerain, the king, who 
was in a condition to impose law on all the others, in a condition to compel obe¬ 
dience. Observe that all permanent means of power and action were wanting : there 
vere no permanent troops, no permanent taxes, no permanent tribunals. The 
social powers and institutions were, in some sort, obliged to recommence, to be re¬ 
created each time they were needed. It was necessary to organise a tribunal for 
every process, an army for every war, a revenue whenever there was need of money; 
.every thing was occasional, accidental, special; there was no means of central, 
permanent, independent government. It is clear that, in such a system, no indivi¬ 
dual was capable of imposing his will on others, or of causing the general right to 
be respected by all. 

On the other hand, resistance was as easy as repression was difficult. Shut up 
in his castle, having to do with a small number of enemies, easily finding, among 
the vassals situated in the same way as himself, means of coalition, and of assist¬ 
ance, the possessor of a fief had every facility for defending himself. 

Thus then the first system of political guarantees, the system which places them 
under the intervention of the most powerful, is proved to be impossible in 
feudalism. 

The other system, that of free government, of a public power, was equally im¬ 
practicable ; it could never have arisen in the midst of feudalism. The reason is 
simple. When we speak, in the present day, of a public power, of what we call the 
rights of sovereignty, the right of imposing laws, taxes, and punishments, we all 
know, and think, that these rights belong to no individual, that no one has, on his 


GUIZOT.] 


THE FEUDAL SYSTEM. 


215 


own account, the right to punish others, to impose on them a burden, or a law. 
These are rights that pertain only to society in general, • which are exercised in its 
name which it holds, not of itself, but of the most High. Thus, when an indivi¬ 
dual comes before the power which is invested with these rig its, it sen imen 
which moves him, perhaps unconsciously, is that he is in *e presence o ^ 

legitimate authority, which has a mission to command lnm, and he is n a 
submissive, naturally and involuntarily. It was quite otherwise eu “ism- The 
nossessor of the fief was invested with all the rights of sovereignty in his doma , 
anfover the men that occupied it; they were inherent to the domain and formed 
part of his private property. What we now call public rights, were) theni private 
rights • what are now public powers, were then private powers. When a hoi e 
a fief after having exercised sovereignty in his own name, as proprietor, over all 
the inulation amonv whom he lived, went to an assembly, to a parliament held in 
the presence of his suzerain, a parliament not at all numerous, generally C0 “P° S ^ 
of Ms eoimls or nearly so, he neither carried there, nor brought away with him, 
an idea of public power. Such an idea was a contradiction to Ms whole existence 
T u Ms arts in his domains. He only saw there men invested with the same 
rights and in the same situation as himself, acting as he did in virtue of their per- 

° i 'll Nothin? led or obliged him to recognise, in the highest depaitment o 
sonal will. NM h S | which we call public, that character of supe- 

the government, in the in w ^ whMl w * form of political powers. And 

there, he refused to concur in it, or 
appealed to force to resist it. habitual guarantee of right, if 


62 .—ACCESSION OF HENRY II. 


Hume. 


s i jsss 

states, were totally unknown in ancient ages, *™ involved than at 

each kingdom formed :a speculait,or 1 nations in so 

present. Commerce had not yet bound together the most ^ were uttlo 

close a chain : wars, fimshed in one campaig , jft communication among 

-^^^3 ^ oth^.^tiofo made it i^cahle 

^staTe ^d r^sMm 

Roman pontiff, to whom they had 






HALF-HOURS OF EN-GLISH BISTORT. 


216 


[HUMK 


yielded the direction of ecclesiastical affairs, and who was every day assuming more 
authority than they were willing to allow him. 

Before the conquest of England by the duke of Normandy, this island was a* 
much separated from the rest of the world in politics as in situation ; and except 
from the inroads of the Danish pirates, the English, happily confined at home, had 
neither enemies nor allies on the continent. The foreign dominions of William 
connected them with the king and great vassals of France ; and while the opposite 
pretensions of the pope and emperor in Italy, produced a continual intercourse be¬ 
tween Germany and that country, the two great monarchs of France and England 
formed, in another part of Europe, a separate system, and carried on their wars and 
negociations, without meeting either with opposition or support from the others. 

On the decline of the Carlovingian race, the nobles in every province of France, 
taking advantage of the weakness of the sovereign, and obliged to provide each for 
his own defence, against the ravages of the Norman freebooters, had assumed, both 
in civil' and military affairs, an authority almost independent, and had reduced 
within very narrow limits the prerogative of their princes. The accession of Hugh 
Capet, by annexing a great fief to the crown, had brought some addition to the 
royal dignity ; but this fief, though considerable for a subject, appeared a narrow 
basis of power for a prince who was placed at the head of so great a community. 
The royal demesnes consisted only of Paris, Orleans, Estampes, Campaigne, and a 
few places scattered over the northern provinces. In the rest of the kingdom, the 
prince’s authority was rather nominal than real. The vassals were accustomed, 
nay entitled, to make war without his permission, on each other. They were even 
entitled, if they conceived themselves injured, to turn their arms against their 
sovereign. They exercised all civil jurisdiction, without appeal, over their tenants 
and inferior vassals. Their common jealousy of the crown easily united them 
against any attempt on their exorbitant privileges ; and as some of them had 
attained the power and authority of great princes, even the smallest baron was sure 
of immediate and effectual protection. Besides six ecclesiastical peerages, which, 
with the other immunities of the church, cramped extremely the general execution 
of justice, there were six lay peerages, Burgundy, Normandy, Guienne, Flanders, 
Toulouse, and Champagne, which formed very extensive and puissant sovereignties. 
And though the combination of all those princes and barons could, on urgent occa¬ 
sions, muster a mighty power ; yet was it very difficult to set that great machine 
in movement ; it was almost impossible to preserve harmony in its parts ; a sense 
of common interest alone could, for a time, unite them under their sovereign against 
a common enemy ; but if the king attempted to turn the force of the community 
against any mutinous vassal, the same sense of common interest made the others 
oppose themselves to the success of his pretensions. Lewis the Gross, the last 
sovereign, marched at one time to his frontiers against the Germans at the head of 
an army of two hundred thousand men ; but a petty Lord of Corbeil, of Pinset, 
of Conci, was able, at another period, to set that prince at defiance, and to main¬ 
tain open war against him. 

The authority of the English monarch was much more extensive within his 
kingdom, and the disproportion much greater between him and the most powerful 
of his vassals. His demesnes and revenue were large, compared to the greatness 
of his state : He was accustomed to levy arbitrary exactions on his subjects : His 
courts of judicature extended their jurisdiction into every part of the kingdom : He 
could crush by his power, or by a judicial sentence, well or ill-founded, any obnoxious 
baron : And though the feudal institutions which prevailed in this kingdom, had 
the same tendency as in other states, to exalt the aristocracy and distress the 
monarchy, it required in England, according to its present constitution, a great 











ACCESSION OF HENRY II. 


217 


HUME.] 

combination of the vassals to oppose their sovereign-lord, and there had not hitherto 
arisen any baron so powerful as of himself to levy war against the piince, and to 
afford protection to the inferior barons. 

While such were the different situations of France and England, and the latter 
enjoyed so many advantages above the former ; the accession of Henry II., a piince 
of great abilities, possessed of so many rich provinces on the continent, might 
appear an event dangerous, if not fatal to the French monarchy, and sufficient to 
break entirely the balance between the states. He was master, m the right of his 
father, of Anjou and Touraine ; in that of his mother, of Normandy and Maine ; m 
that of his wife, Guienne, Poictou, Xaintogne, Auvergne, Pengord, Angoumois, the 
Limousin. He soon after annexed Brittany to his other states, and was a rea y 
possessed of the superiority over that province, which, on the first cession of Nor- 
mandv to Rollo the Dane, had been granted by Charles the Simple in vassalage to 
that formidable ravager. These provinces composed above a third of the who e 
French monarchy, and were much superior in extent and opulence to those tern,ones 
which were subjected to the immediate jurisdiction and government of the king 
The vassal was here more powerful than the liege lord : The situation which had 
enabled Hugh Capet to depose the Carlovmgian princes seemed to be renewed and 
that with much greater advantages on the side of the vassal : And when England was 
added to so many provinces, the French king had reason to apprehend from this 
conjuncture, some great disaster to himself and to his family : But m reality, it > as 
this J circumstance, which appeared so formidable that saved the Capetian race. 


03 .-THE RISE OF THOMAS A BECKET. ^ ^ 

The most powerful churchman, the most remarkable man of his country or of 

the ta which he lived-the priest that was strong enough to contend with 
the times in v n c Henry II.—was of the Saxon race, a native ot the 

t G ^London and tile son of a London merchant. The traditionary history of 
the family and birth of Thomas h Becket is highly romantic and picturesque. is 

3 15 the reign of Hen,, L It £ been « but 

than upon an, conte"qi t probable that he was carried 

first Crusade, 5d f when the Crusaders had obtained by inquest ^ e ^eys 

and thrived together. In all tie coun rie- ip^e gtrines, the holy wells, 

griras to the holy places were, and still are traffic v • : elsewhere, 

the fountain-heads of rivers, the ^ 5, attracted pilgrims 

the holy mounts, and ail othei pilac P . scenes 0 f great annual 

to them, became either the regular sea s o comi' ’ j distant districts 

fairs, for the interchange of commod.t.es, 0 X^lnd manurtures. Perhaps 
and from countries much varying in soil, production, and 










218 HALF-HOURS OP ENGLISH HISTORY. [C. MAC FARLAXE. 

Gilbert Becket, like other merchant-pilgrims from England, may, for the sake of 
protection, have enrolled himself under the banner of some great Norman knight. 
While in the Holy Land, he had the misfortune to be takeD prisoner by the Sara¬ 
cens, who generally made domestic slaves of the captives of their sword. Gilbert 
is represented as living in a. state of slavery in the house of an Emir or Moham¬ 
medan chief ; but, as the romantic story goes, the fair daughter of the Emir fell in 
love with his handsome person, and assisted him in making his escape ; and when 
he vvas gone, finding that she could not live without him, she fled from her father s 
house and from her own sunny climate, to seek her lover through the unknown 
countries of the West ; and knowing only two words that were intelligible to 
European ears, her lover’s name and the name of his birthplace and home, she 
repeated wherever she went. u London ! London ! Gilbert! Gilbert!” Having, after 
many dangers and strange adventures, reached the English capital, she went from 
street to street, calling upon Gilbert, and weeping for that she could not find him. 
Her Eastern dress, her beauty, and her helpless condition drew crowds around her, 
and excited the sympathy of some good Londoners ; and at last her lover was 
either found out for her, or he met her in the streets as she was calling his name. 
Such lasting and heroic love could not go unrewarded, and Becket, now a very 
thriving citizen, resolved to make the Syrian maiden his wife. But first she must 
renounce Mohammed and the Koran. She was speedily converted and baptized ; 
and then married to Gilbert. The story struck the fancy of the artists and illumi¬ 
nators, and the baptism of the fair Syrian and her espousals seem to have been de¬ 
lineated and repeated in a good many old manuscripts. 

From this romantic marriage proceeded the great Thomas a Becket, who was born 
in London, in or about the year 1119. The boy was gifted with an extraordinary 
intelligence, a handsome person, and most prepossessing manners ; and his pros¬ 
perous father gave him all the advantages of education. He studied successively 
at Merton Abbey, London, Oxford, and Paris. In the French capital he applied 
himself to civil law, and acquired as perfect a mastery and as pure a pronunciation 
of the French language as any, the best educated, of the Norman nobles and 
officers. While yet a very young man, he was employed as clerk in the office of 
the sheriff of London, and probably acted as under-sheriff, a post then requiring 
much knowledge of law, and which was in after times occupied by Sir Thomas 
More. While in the sheriff’s office, he attracted the notice of Theobald, Arch¬ 
bishop of Canterbury, a learned Norman, who had previously been prior of the 
great Benedictine abbey of Bee. Before this acquaintance with the primate began, 
the handsome and alert Thomas had become the intimate friend of a great baron 
who resided near London ; and with this lord he rode, hunted, and hawked, and 
enjoyed all the other pleasures which were then considered as a monopoly of the 
aristocracy. He was qualified for the military profession and the honours of knight¬ 
hood, but Archbishop Theobald, who conceived a great affection for him, advised 
him to take orders and to continue the study of law, all lawyers and judges being 
at that time chosen out of the priesthood. Thomas followed the primate’s ad¬ 
vice, and went to complete his study of the civil law at the then famous school of 
Bologna. After profiting by the lessons of the learned Gratian, and making him¬ 
self master of the Italian language, Becket recrossed the Alps, and stayed some 
time at Auxerre in Burgundy, to attend the lectures of another celebrated law pro¬ 
fessor. On his return to London, he took deacon’s orders, and his powerful patron, 
the archbishop, gave him some valuable church preferment, free from the necessity 
of residence and the performance of any church duties. Not long after this, Theo¬ 
bald having some important negotiations to conclude at the court of Borne, sent 
Thomas & Becket to the pope as the best qualified person he knew. The young 






C. MAC FARLANE.J 


THE RISE OF THOMAS V A RECKET. 


210 


diplomatist acquitted himself with great ability and complete success, obtaining 
from the pontiff a prohibitory bull which defeated the design of Clowning Prnee 
Eustace the son of King Stephen, and which most materially contributed to put an 
“ the long and destructive civil war, and to place the brave and accomplished 
Henrv II peacefully on the English throne. Becket’s services were not foi gotten 
hv the Empress Matilda and the house of Plantagenet. On Henry-aRecession, in 

l'l54, Archbishop Theobald had alUhe auti-V ^’JhoN™. made 

Cwl“’offhTEn g dom7n 1156, being the first Englishman i“Con^ 

that reached any eminent office se“L and 

Henry, who was charmed with his wit, ia or Eddish or of the mixed race, 

society to those of any other man ™ Z, the wardenship of 

appointed him preceptor of Hertfordshire, and the honour 

kUigMS ’ feeS - HiS “ 
ot Eye ill Lmcoinsnne, wit ■ . and n0 man ever spent money 

flowing in from so many source w^m^ense^ar ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

more freely or magnificently, or, foi t > . . e H is house was 

Cardinal Wolsey of an earlier and ^ e ^“‘XSngfandfaniiture, with vessels of 
a palace. It was stocked witi e c “ ^ = ° u mber]ess guests of all goodly 

gold and silver ; it was constan y q ^ g and feuda i retainers—of which 
ranks from barons and earls to king, ■ ‘ 1 ®. g immediate vassa ls. His tables 
last classes he bad many hundreds t _ ld fin ed with 

were spread with the choicest viand, ^^ and serving men 
the choicest wines, the richest diesses _ f eas ts were more frequent and 

There was a never ceasing exercise of hospitality , were ^ but equal to those 

more splendid than those of any baron in e twelfth century there were of 

of the king. Mixed with this magm^hcenee of ttc ^ 7^^ of 

course loom were hung with costly tapestry, the 

common comfoit. the walls o _ were strewed with rushes or 

hanging roofs were beautiful and n , ^ fte minute bio grapher of & Becket 

with hay and straw like stables. ^ *times greater than could find place at 

relates that as the number of guests was oftti g t covered with 

table, my Lord Chancellor ordered that the floor^should be ^ migM 

fresh hay or straw, in order that t os doQr appearance was still more splen- 

not soil their dresses. The chance 01 f hapce ii 0 r with all possible 

did. Like Cardinal Wolsey he »™^ o \t co urt without having an immense re¬ 
dignity and splendour and never ™ he tra velled like a king, and perhaps 

tinue with him. On his foreig Kurope with the exception of his own 

with more magnificence than any k. g E £ n ’ bis famous embassy to Paris he 
master, could have displayea. vv hen aT3 parel ; and he was at- 

took with him for his own use^ twenty changes ZldThostof domestics, all 

tended by many great barons, wo 11111 through 'France, his train of baggage- 
ricbly armed and attired. As lie travele g falconers with bis hounds and 

waggons and sumpter-horses, is u teholders yviitnevcf he entered a town 
hawks, excited the wonderment ^ hundred and fifty boys singing national 

the ambassadorial procession was »ed y g . apd then eight waggons, each 

songs; then followed Ins hounds, led P > E waggon was covered 

with five large horses, and five drivers m new frocks. Tu , of these 

tlTat^nTof 




220 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [C. MAC FARLANE. 

a sixth carried his plate and wardrobe ; and the remaining two.waggons were de¬ 
voted to the use of his household servants. Some of the grotesqueness of the time 
entered into this splendour. After the waggons came twelve sumpter-horses, a 
monkey riding on each , with a groom behind on his knees. Then came the esquires, 
carrying the shields, and leading the war-horses of their respective knights ; then 
other esquires (youths of gentle birth nurtured in Becket’s house), falconers, officers 
of the household, knights and priests ; and last of all appeared the great chancellor 
himself, with his noblest and most familiar friends. As Becket passed from town 
to town in this guise the French people were heard to exclaim, “ What manner of 
man must the King of England be, when his chancellor can travel with so much 
state.” 

At home, this exaltation and splendour of a man of the Saxon race, the son of a 
London citizen and trader, evidently gave satisfaction to the mass of the English 
people, for he was to all intents their countryman, and in a manner of their own 
class and condition. At the same time the Angevin-born king encouraged all his 
pomp and magnificence, though he sometimes twitted the chancellor on the finery 
of his attire. All such offices of regal government as were not performed by the 
ready and indefatigable king himself, were left to Becket, who had no com¬ 
petitor in authority and no rival in the royal favour and cofisideration of the 
people. Henry and his minister lived together like brothers. According to 
Peter of Blois, a contemporary, who knew more of Henry than any other that has 
written about him, it wms notorious to all men that he and it Becket were “ cor 
umcmet animam unum ” (of one heart and one mind in all things). The chancellor 
was an admirable horseman, and expert in hunting and hawking and in all the 
sports of the field. These accomplishments, and a never failing wit and vivacity, 
made him the constant companion of the king’s leisure hours, and the sharer (it is 
hinted) in less innocent pleasures than hunting and hawking—for Henry, who had 
married a princess of a very indifferent character for the sake of the dominions she 
brought him, was a very unfaithful husband, and the general licentiousness of the 
time was great. More than once a Becket accompanied Henry in his wars in the 
south of France, and at several sieges he is said to have displayed his fearlessness 
and activity in being the first man to mount the breach. 

At the same time it is universally admitted that Becket was an able and honest 
minister, and that his administration was not only advantageous to his master, but, 
on the whole, extremely beneficial to the nation. He took a pride in protecting 
the quiet citizen against the violent man of war ; and the experience of his father, 
and the things he had seen in his father’s house and in the city of London in his 
early days, had given him a sense of the importance of trade and industry. The 
envy of the aristocracy only bound him the more to the cause of the people, or of 
that portion of them who were free men, and who were slowly but gradually and 
surely forming the broad basis of our tiers etat. Most of the excellent measures 
which distinguished the early part of the reign of Henry II. have been attributed 
to Becket’s advice, discriminating genius, good intentions, and patriotism. We 
must not look for perfect legislature in such a period, or expect to find in the 
twelfth the political or public economy of the nineteenth century ; but during 
Becket’s administration internal tranquillity was restored to a country that had 
scarcely had a glimpse of that blessing for the space of twenty years, the baronial 
power was curbed, better judges were appointed, the currency, which had been 
alloyed and spoilt in the time of Stephen, was reformed, and trade with foreign 
countries was protected and encouraged. A charter was granted confirming the 
liberties and privileges of the citizens of London, who had valorously proved in the 
preceding reign their importance in the state. Fitz-Stephen says that there was 


C. MAC FARLANE.] THE RISE OF THOMAS A BECKET. 

nowhere so much trade, that no city in the world sent out its merchandise to so 
great a distance ; that the London “citizens were distinguished above all others in 
England for the elegance of their manners and dress, and the magnificence ot their 
tables. There were already thirteen large conventual churches and one hundred 
and thirty-six parochial churches within the city and suburbs. It was in fact 
durino- this reign that London first became decidedly what Fitz-Stephen calls it, the 
capital of the kingdom of England. But other trading cities were rapidly rising in 
importance, as Bristol, Gloucester, Winchester, Chester, Dunwich, Norwich, Lynn, 
Lincoln and Whitby. Great attention was paid to the commercial navy, which 
was entirely manned by men of the Saxon or mixed race ; and the frequent use 
Henry was obliged to make of this shipping in conveying his troops and stores to 
the Continent, and in attacking maritime towns, taught him to consider the naval 
force of England as an important arm of its strength. The commerce of England 
had never been so great since the departure of the Romans as it became during the 
reign of Henry II. And perhaps it had not so flourished even in the best time of 
the Roman dominion. The enriched citizens of London lived like barons and were 
frequently called so ; and already some of the noblest of the aristocracy contracted 
matrimonial alliances with them. The two races were now entirely forgetting then- 
old animosities, were coalescing into one undivided and indivisible nation, and 
under the common name of Englishman they had all English feelings, and were 
already beginning to show a spirit of resistance to all arbitrary power, and a know¬ 
ledge and love of free institutions. 


(54._THE FALL OF THOMAS A BECKET 


Thierry. 


In the year 1164, the royal justiciaries, revoking de facto the ancient law ot the 
conqueror, summoned before their assizes a priest who was accused of rape an o 
murder • but the Archbishop of Canterbury, as ecclesiastical superior of all Eng¬ 
land declared the summons to be null, in virtue of the privileges of the clergy, 
which were as ancient in the country as those of the Norman kings. He sent some 
agents of his own to seize the culprit, who was brought before an ecclesiastical tn- 
buna publicly beaten with rods, and suspended from all office for several years. 
This affair in which justice was respected up to a certain point, but m which the 
authoritv of he royal judges was entirely disregarded, gave great offence. Those 
of ^Norman descent^were divided into two parties, of which the one approved, and 
the other severely censured the conduct of the primate. The bishops weie for lnm, 
•md the military men, the court, and the king were against him. The king, naturally 

obstinate, suddenly converted this individual dife 

legislation ; and, convoking a great assembly of all the nobles and prelates e 
sofemnlv exposed to them the numerous offences committed every day by tie 
nricsts and added that he had discovered the means of repressing these disorders 
by following the ancient customs of his predecessors especialiy those of gra d 
father Henry I. ; he asked, according to the usual form, all the membeis of the 
assembly if they did not think it right that he should revive the customs of s 

grandfather The laymen replied that such was their desire ; but all the ecu 
grandiatner. me j t consistent with the honour of 

with. Thomas at their head, answered : As iai as is con ^ ieu " , „ ret)lied the 
God and of the holy church.” “There is venom in those woids lepiiea tie 

king' in anger; ho immediately left the bishops without salutmg them, and the 
affair remained undecided 






2 22 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY. 

A few days after Henry II. called separately to his presence Roger, archbishop of 
York, Robert de Melun, bishop of Hereford, and some other English prelates, whose 
names by their French nature sufficiently indicate their origin. By promises, long 
explanations, and, perhaps, insinuations about the Englishman Becket’s supposed 
designs against the nobles of England, in short, by several arguments which his¬ 
torians do not particularize, the Anglo-Norman bishops were nearly all won over to 
the king’s side ; they promised to favour the re-establishment of the alleged cus¬ 
toms of Henry I., who, to say the truth, had never practised any except those of 
William the Conqueror, the founder of the ecclesiastical privileges, and of the papal 
supremacy in England. The king further applied to the pope, for the second time 
since his dispute with the Archbishop ; and the pope, compliant to excess, at once 
sided with him, without examining into the rights of the affair ; he even deputed a 
special messenger, with apostolical letters, enjoining all the prelates, and especially 
him of Canterbury, to accept and observe all the laws of the king of England, what¬ 
ever they might be. Standing alone in his opposition, and deprived of all hope of 
support, Becket was forced to yield. He went to the king at his residence at 
Woodstock, and promised, like the other bishops, to observe with good faith, and 
without any restrictions, all the laws that should be made. In order that this pro¬ 
mise might be renewed in an authentic manner, in the midst of a solemn assembly, 
king Henry convoked, in the village of Clarendon, three miles from Salisbury a 
great council of the Anglo-Normans, archbishops, bishops, abbots, nriors, eails, 
barons, and knights. 

The assembly of Clarendon was held in the month of March, in the year 1164, 
John, bishop of Oxford, presiding. The king’s orators made a statement of the 
reforms, and entirely new arrangements which he was pleased to entitle the ancient 
customs and liberties of his grandfather, Henry I. The bishops gave their solemn 
approbation to all they had heard ; but Becket refused his, accusing himself, on the 
contrary, of folly and weakness in having promised to observe without reservation 
the laws of the king, whatever they might be. The whole Norman council was in 
an uproar. The bishops supplicated Thomas, and the barons menaced him. Two 
knights of the Temple implored him, with tears, not to dishonour the king ; and 
whilst this scene was taking place in the great hall, there might be seen in the ad¬ 
joining apartment men buckling on their coats of mail, and girding themselves with 
their swords. The archbishop was alarmed, and gave his word to observe without 
reservation the customs of the king’s grandfather, declaring, however, that, not 
being so quick as his colleagues, he had need of time to examine these customs be¬ 
fore he could verify them. The assembly appointed commissioners to draw them 
up into articles ; and admitting the archbishop’s pretext of ignorance, adjourned 
the final decision of this affair to the following day. 

The next day, the ancient customs, or constitutions , of Henry I. were produced in 
writing, divided into sixteen articles, containing an entire system of dispositions, 
which were quite contrary to the earliest made by the Anglo-Norman kings, that is 
to say, the ordinances of William the Conqueror. There were besides, some special 
regulations, one of which forbade the ordination as priests, without the consent of 
their lord, of those who in the Norman language were called natifs or naifs, that is 
to say the serfs, who were all of the indigenous race. The bishops were required 
to affix their seals in wax at the foot of the parchment which contained these sixteen 
articles ; they all did so, with the exception of Thomas, who demanded a greater de¬ 
lay, and a copy of the new laws to examine. But the want of the archbishop’s 
consent did not prevent the new constitutions from being promulgated. Letters 
were dispatched from the royal chancery addressed to all the Norman judges or 
justiciaries in England, and on the continent. These letters ordered them in the 



THE FALL OF THOMAS A BECKET. 


223 


THIERRY.] — -- - 

name of Henry, by the grace of God, king of England, duke of Normandy, duke of 
Aquitaine and count of Anjou, to cause the archbishops, bishops, abbots, priests, 
earls, barons, citizens, burgesses, and peasants to execute and observe the ordinances 

decreed at the great council of Clarendon. 

A letter from the bishop of Poitiers, who received like dispatches, carried into 

his diocese by Simon de Tournebu, and Richard de Lacy, justiciaries, makes known 
in detail the instructions that they contained. It is curious to compare these in¬ 
structions with the laws published twenty-four years before, m-the name of VV 1 liam 
I and his council ; for in both cases we find the same threats and the same penal¬ 
ties attached to laws entirely opposed to each other. 

“ The} 7 have forbidden me,” says the bishop of Poitiers, to summon oe oic 
a court of justice any one whomsoever in my diocese, on the suit of a widow an 
orphan, or a priest, unless the king’s officers, or the lords of the fief, on whom t e 
litigated cause depended, should have refused to render justice ; they have declared 
that if any one obeys my summons, all his goods shall be immediately confiscate , 
and himself imprisoned ; finally, they have signified to me, that if I excommunicate 
those that refuse to appear before my episcopal court, the excommunicated mignt 
without any displeasure to the king, attach my person, or the persons of my clerks, 

my own property, or that of my church. . „ „ 

From the moment when these laws, made by the Normans in a village of E g- 

land were decreed as obligatory on the inhabitants of nearly all the west of Gaul 
Angevins, Manseaux, Bretons, Poitevins, and Acquitaimans, and all this varied 
population was agitated by the quarrel of Henry II. and the archbishop, Thomas a 
Becket, the court of Rome began to regard with more attention an affair which, in 
so short a time, had acquired so much importance. This court, profoundly politic, 
from henceforth applied itself to gather the greatest possible advantage either fiorn 
war or peace The archbishop of Rouen, Rotron, who was less interested than the 
Ancdo-Normans in the conflict between the English king and primate came with a 
mission from the pope, to observe things on the spot, and at all events to propose 
an accommodation under pontifical mediation. But king Henry elated by his 
triumph replied that he should not accept this mediation unless the pope would 
previously confirm, by an apostolic bull, the articles of Clarendon, and the pope, 
who was more likely to gain, than to lose, by delay, refused to give his sanction 

iin+il Vir* wns hptter informed about the case. 

Then Henry II, soliciting for the third time the support of the pontifical court 
aJnst his antagonist Becket, sent a solemn embassy to Alexander III, asking him 
to confer upon Roger, archbishop of Tork, the title of apostolic legate in England, 
with authority to make and to unmake, to appoint and to discharge Alexander 
d d not grant this request, but lie conferred on the king himself, by a formal com- 
title and the rights of legate, with full powers to act on every point but 

“ h wfs thfdepos;i,n of tlm primate. The king seeing that the pope’s 
one, wmcii i received this new kind of commission with 

intention '™ 3 0 ® “ d returne d it immediately. “ We shall employ our own autho- 

X’’’ he said “ and we believe that it will be sufficient to cause those to return to 
, ty, he said, a ns our honoul ,» The primate, abandoned by 

theAnolo-Norman barons and bishops, and having on his side only poor monks, 
A g , f , H .'.u p e should be too weak to stand against his antagonist 

—edt’Sland! and resolved to seek support and refuge elsewhere He 
, - +he ort 0 f Ronmey, and twice went on board a ship ready to start, but 
boft times the crew, fearing the anger of the nobles and the king, refused to se* 

"Xme months after the assembly of Clarendon, Henry II. convoked another at 





224 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY 

Northampton, and Thomas with the other bishops, received his letter of convoca¬ 
tion ; he arrived on the day appointed, and took a lodging in the town ; but he 
had scarcely engaged it, when the king ordered it to be occupied by his servants 
and horses. Enraged at this insult, the archbishop sent word that he should not 
appear at the parliament, unless his house was evacuated by the king’s horses and 
men. It was consequently given up to him ; but the uncertainty which he felt as 
to the issue of this unequal contest, made him fear to get more deeply involved in 
it, and, humiliating as it was to him to ask any thing of the man who had just so 
grossly insulted him, he repaired to the king’s hotel and demanded an audience : he 
waited in vain the whole day, whilst Henry II. was amusing himself with his 
falcons and dogs. The next day he went again, and stationed himself in the king’s 
chapel during mass, and approaching the king with a respectful air as he went out, 
he asked his permission to go into France. “Very well,” replied the king ; “ but, 
first, you must render me satisfaction for several things, and especially for the 
Avrong that you have done in your court to my marshal, John.” 

The fact was this : the Norman John, surnamed the Marshal on account of his 
military office, had appeared before the episcopal court of justice at Canterbury, to 
reclaim some land from the bishopric, which he pretended to ha\ T e a right to as an 
hereditary possession. The primate’s judges had rejected his claim as ill-founded, 
and the complainant had then falsified the court, that is to say, protested on oath, 
that it had denied him justice. “ I admit,” replied Thomas to the king, “ that 
John the marshal presented himself before my court; but far from receiving any 
injury from me, it is I who have received one from him ; for he brought a song- 
book, and it was on this that he swore that my court was false, and had denied 
justice ; whereas, according to the laAV of the kingdom, whoe\ r er wishes to falsify 
the court of another, must swear on the holy gospels.” The king affected to take 
no account of this excuse. The accusation of a denial of justice brought against the 
archbishop Avas prosecuted before the great Norman council, Avhich condemned him, 
and, by its sentence, adjudged him to the mercy of the king, that is to say, ad¬ 
judged to the king all that he pleased to take of the goods of the condemned. 
Becket was at first tempted to protest against this sentence, and to falsify judg¬ 
ment, as it was then termed ; but the consciousness of his Aveakness determined 
him to compound with his judges, and he compromised the matter by paying a fine 
ff five hundred pounds. 

Becket returned home with a heart saddened by the mortifications which he had 
met with, and vexation caused him to fall ill. As soon as the king learnt this, he 
hastened to send him a summons to re-appear without a day’s delay before the 
assembly of Northampton, to render an account of all the sums of money and all 
the public revenues of which he had had the management during his chancellor¬ 
ship. “ I am weak and suffering,” replied Thomas to the royal officers, “ and be¬ 
sides, the king knoAvs as well as I do, that on the day that I Avas consecrated arch¬ 
bishop, the barons of his exchequer and Richard de Lacy, justiciary of England 
declared me to be free from all charge and claim.” The legal citation Avas not 
withdrawn ; but Thomas neglected to obey it, alleging his illness as a pretext. 
Several times agents of justice came to ascertain how far it Avas impossible for him 
to perform a journey ; and they signified to him the amount of the king’s claims, 
which was forty-four thousand marks. The archbishop offered to pay two thousand 
marks to free himself from this vexatious action, commenced with such eA T il inten¬ 
tions ; but Henry II. refused every sort of accommodation, for in this affair, it was 
not the money which tempted him. “ Either I will cease to be king,” he cried, 
“ or this man shall cease to be archbishop.” 

The delay accorded by laAV had expired, it Avas necessary that Becket should pro 












THE FALL OF THOMAS 'a BECKET. 


225 


iHIERRT.] 


sent himself, and on the other hand he had been warned, that if he appeared at 
court it would not he without endangering his life. In this extremity, summoning 
all his strength of soul, he resolved to go there and to he firm. On the morning of 
the decisive day, he celebrated the mass of St. Stephen, the first martyr, the office of 
which commences with these words : “ The princes have sat in council to deliberate 
against me.” After the masi he clothed himself in his pontifical robes, and, 
having taken his silver cross from the hands of him who usually bore it, he set out, 
carrying the cross in his right hand, and with the left holding the reins of his 
horse. Alone, and still holding his cross, he arrived in the great hall of the assem- 
bly, passed through the crowd, and seated himself. Henry II. was then in a more 
private apartment with his particular friends, engaged in discussing the means of 
getting rid of the archbishop with the least possible disturbance. The news of the 
unexpected manner in which he had just made his entrance, disturbed the king 
and his advisers. One of them, Gilbert Foliet, bishop of London, hastily left the 
lesser apartment, and approaching the spot where Thomas was seated, said to him, 
“ Why dost thou come thus armed with thy cross ! ” And he seized the cross to 
take it from him, but the primate held it firmly. The archbishop of York then 
joined the bishop of London, and addressed himself to Becket, saying, “ It is a de¬ 
fiance to the king, our lord, to come armed to his court ; but the king has a sword, 
the point of which is sharper than that of a pastoral staff.” The other bishops, 
showing less violence, contented themselves with advising Thomas, for the sake of 
his own interest, to place his archiepiscopal dignity at the mercy of the king ; but 
he did not listen to them. 

Whilst this scene was taking place in the great had, Henry II. experienced great 
mortification in seeing his adversary under the safe-guard of his pontifical vest¬ 
ments, the bishops, who, at the first moment, had all given their approbation to the 
projects of violence formed against their colleague, were now silent, and avoided 
encouraging the courtiers to lay hands on the stole and cross. The king s ad\iseis 
were uncertain what to resolve, when one of them began to speak, in these words : 
a Why should we not suspend him from all his rights and privileges by an appeal 
to St. Peter ; that is the means to disarm him.” This advice, received like a ra} 
of lio-ht pleased the king exceedingly, and by his orders, the bishop of Chichester, 
advancing towards Thomas & Becket, at the head of all the others, addressed him in 


the following words :— 

u Formerly, thou wort our archbishop, but now we disown thee, for, after having 
promised fidelity to the king, our common lord, and sworn to maintain his ordi¬ 
nances thou hast striven to destroy them. We then declare thee a traitor and a 
periurer, and profess openly that we are no longer bound to obey one who has per¬ 
jured himself, placing our cause under the approbation of our lord the pope, be oie 

whom we cite thee to appear.” .. 

To this declaration, made with all the pomp of legal forms, and all the emphasis 

of confidence, Becket replied with these few words I hear what you say Ihe 
great assembly of the nobles was then bpened, and William Foliet appealed befoie 
ft to accuse the ci devant archbishop of having celebrated a mass in contempt of 
the king under the invocation of the evil spirit ; then came the demand for the 
rendering of the accounts of the chancellorship, and the claim of fourty-four thou¬ 
sand marks. Becket refused to plead, attesting the solemn declaration vhicli had 
formerly discharged him from all ulterior responsibility. Then the king, using 
said to the barons and prelates By the faith that you owe me do me prompt 
justice upon him who is my liege-man, and who, after having been duly summoned 
refuses to answer in my court.” The Normans gave their votes and pronounced 
sentence of imprisonment against Thomas 4 Becket. When Robert, earl of Leicester 






226 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY. 

charged with the reading of the sentence, pronounced in the French tongue the 
first words of the prescribed formula, u Cyez-ci le jugement rendu contre vous 
the archbishop interrupted him :—“Earl,” he said, “ I forbid you, in the name of 
Almighty God, here to give judgment against me, who am your spiritual father ; I 
appeal to the sovereign pontiff, and cite you before him. 

After this sort of counter-appeal to the authority which his adversaries them¬ 
selves had first invoked, Becket rose, and passed slowly through the crowd. A 
murmur arose on all sides ; the Normans cried : The false traitor, the perjurer, 

where is he going ? why is he suffered to go in peace 1 Remain heie, tiaitoi, and 
hear thy sentence.” At the moment of going out Becket turned, and looking coldly 
around him said, “ If my sacred order did not forbid it, I would have replied by 
arms to those who have called me a traitor and a perjurer. He mounted his 
horse, went to the house where he lodged, had tables set out for a great lepast, and 
gave orders that all the poor of the town should be assembled. A great number 
came, and he made them eat and drink. He supped with them, and, the same 
night, whilst the king and the Norman barons were prolonging their evening repast, 
he"left Northampton, accompanied by two Cistercian friars, the one an Englishman, 
named Sharman, the other a Frenchman, called Robert de Canne. After three days 
march he reached the fens of Lincolnshire, and there hid himself in a hermit’s hut. 
From thence, in complete disguise, and under the assumed name of Dearman, the 
Saxon character of which was a guarantee of obscurity, he reached Canterbury, then 
the coast near Sandwich. It was the end of November, a season when the passage 
becomes perilous. The archbishop embarked in a small boat, to avoid suspicion, 
and after passing through many dangers, arrived at the port of Gravelines. He 
then repaired on foot, and ill-equipped to the monastery of St. Bertin, near Namur. 

On the news of his flight, a royal edict was published in all. the king of Eng¬ 
land’s provinces on both shores of the Channel. By the terms of this edict, all the 
relations of Thomas a Becket, in the ascending and descending line, from old men, 
to women in their pregnancy, and infants in arms, were condemned to banishment. 
All the possessions of the archbishop and his adherents, or those who were so 
called, were sequestrated into the hands of the king. 


65.—THE DEATH OF THOMAS A BECKET. 

Holinshed. 

The Archbishop of York, the two bishops London and Salisbury, being offended 
with his doings, sailed over into Normandy, and there complained to king Henry 
of injuries done to them by archbishop Thomas, grievously accusing him. that he 
went about to take away their liberty of priesthood, to destroy, corrupt, and finally 
to abolish both the laws of God and man, together with the ancient decrees and 
statutes of their elders ; insomuch that he took upon him to exclude bishops at his 
pleasure from the company of Christian men, and so being excluded, to banish them 
for ever : to derogate things merely prejudicial to the king’s royal prerogative ; and 
finally to take away from all men the equity of laws and civil orders. 

The king giving ear to their complaint was so displeased in his mind against 
archbishop Thomas, that in open audience of his lords, knights, and gentlemen, he 
said these or the like words : “ In what miserable state am I, that cannot be in 
rest within mine own realm, by reason of one only priest. Neither is there any of 
' my folks that will help to deliver me out of such troubles.” 

There were some that stood about the king, which guessed by these words, that 
his mind was to signify how he would have some man to dispatch the archbishop 








227 


THIERRY.] 


THE DEATH OF THOMAS 'a BECKET. 


out o£ the way. The king’s displeasure against the archbishop was known well 
enough, which caused men to have him in no reverence at all, so that (as it was 
said), he chanced on a time, that he came to Stroud, in Kent, where the inhabi¬ 
tants meaning to do somewhat to his infamy, being thus out of the kings favour, 

and despised of the world, cut off his horse s tail. 

There were some also of the king’s servants, that thought after another manrei 
of sort to revenge the displeasure done to the king’s majesty, as Sir Hugh Morville, 
Sir William Tracy, Sir Richard Brito, and Sir Reginald Fitzurse, knights, who taking 
advice together, and agreeing in one mind and will, took shipping, and sailed over 
into England, landed at a place called Dogs-haven, near Dover. 

Now the first night they lodged in the castle of Saltwood, which Randolph de 
Broe had in keeping. The next morning being the 29tli of December, and fifth 
day of Christmas, which as that year came about fell upon a Tuesday, having gotten 
together certain soldiers in the country thereabouts, came to Canterbury, anc rst 
entering into the court of the Abbey of St. Augustine, they talked with Clarenbald 
the elect abbot of that place ; and after conference had with him, they proceeded 


in their business as folioweth. „ 

The first knight Sir Reginald Fitzurse came to him about the eleventh hour ot 
the day as the archbishop sat in his chamber, and sitting down at his feet upon 
the ground without any manner of greeting or salutation, at length began with him 

+k us ; _“ Beino- sent of our sovereign lord the king from beyond the seas, we do 

here present unto you his grace’s commandments, to wit, that you should go to his 
son the king, to do unto him that which appertained unto you to do unto your 
sovereign lord, and to do your fealty unto him m taking an oath, and further o 
amend that wherein you have offended hie majesty.” ^hereunto the archbishop 

answered •_“ For what cause ought I to confirm my fealty unto him by oath , 01 

wherein am I guilty in offending the king’s majesty ?” Sir Reginald said For 
your barony, fealty is demanded of you with an oath, and another oath is required 
of those clerks, which you have brought with you, if they mean to continue withm 
the land ’’ The archbishop answered For my barony I am ready to do to he king 
whatsoever law or reason shall allow : but let him for certain hold, that he shall 
not get any oath either of me or of my clerks.’ “ We knew that, said the knight, 
“that you would not do any of these things which we proposed unto you. More- 
™ the kinv commandeth you to absolve those bishops that are excommunicated 

by you without his licence.” Whereunto he said “ The bishops are 
7 A, t i,. me p iu t by the pope, who hath thereto authority from the Loid. If 

“ dtfChath ^enved the injury’done to my church, I confess that I am not 
indeed he f „ h J „ sa ;d the knight, “sith that such things in des- 

pfff:?The "please yTu “i is to be thought that you would take from him 
his Town and bo called and taken for king yourself, but you shall miss of your 
’ i_ therein ” The archbishop answered, “ I do not aspire to the name 
^fTk ngrathe would I knit three crowns unto his crown if it lay in my power ’ 
At lenbh after these and such words, the knights turning them to the monks, 

• vi « Tn flip behalf of our sovereign lord the kmg, we command you, that m any 
Sa . 1 ’ ,i ■ an sa f e an d present him to the king when it shall please his 

^ndforTT”^archbishop said, “do ye think that I will run away; 
t n t t n rl]n a wav but to look for the outrage and malice of wicked men. 

“ Truly ”° saicf they'™" yon* shall not run away,” and herewith went out with 
■ and threatenings Then master John of Salisbury, his chancelloi, said unto 

himT-kly lord, tllsisa—" 

rnstst x “s —-•- —> “ ■ - “ i * 






228 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY. 

I know wliat I ought to do.” Then said Salisbury, “ I pray God it may be good.” 
Now the knights departing out of the place, and going about to put on their armour, 
certain came to the archbishop, and said, “ My lord, they arm themselves.” “ What 
forceth it,” said he, “ let them arm themselves.” 

Now when they were armed, and many other about them, they entered into the 
archbishop’s palace. Those that were about the archbishop cried upon him to flee, 
but he sat still and would not once remove, till the monks brought him even by 
force and against his will into the church. The coming of the armed men being 
known, some of the monks continued singing of even song, and some sought places 
where to hide themselves, other came to the archbishop, who was loath to have 
entered into the church, and when ho was within, he would not yet suffer them to 
make fast the doors, so that there was a great stir among them, but chiefly when 
they perceived that the armed men went about to seek for the archbishop, by mean 
whereof their even song was left unfinished. 

At length the knights with their servants having sought the palace, came rush¬ 
ing into the church by the cloister door with their swords drawn, some of them 
asking for the traitor, and some of them for the archbishop, who came and met 
them, saying, “Here am I, no traitor, but the archbishop.” The foremost of the 
knights said unto him, “ Flee, thou art but dead.” To whom the archbishop said, 
“ I will not flee.” The knight stept to him taking him by the sleeve, and with his 
sword cast his cap beside his head, and said, “ Come hither, for thou art a pri¬ 
soner.” “ I will not,” said the archbishop, “do with me here what thou wilt,” 
and plucked his sleeve with a mighty strength out of the knight’s hand. Where¬ 
with the knight stepped back two or three paces. Then the archbishop turning to 
one of the knights, said to him, “ what meaneth this, Reginald, I have done unto 
thee many great pleasures, and comest thou now unto me into the church armed ?” 
Unto whom the knight presently answered and said, “ Thou shalt know anon what 
is meant, thou art but dead ; it is not possible for thee any longer to live.” Unto 
whom the archbishop answered, “ I am ready to die for my God, and for the de¬ 
fence of his justice and the liberty of the church ; gladly do I embrace death, so 
that the church may purchase peace and liberty by the shedding of my blood.” 
Ana herewith taking another of the knights by the habergeon, he flung him 
from him with such violence, that he had almost thrown him down to the ground. 
This was Sir Will. Tracy, as he after confessed, 

Then the archbishop inclined his head after the manner of one that would pray, 
pronouncing these his last words :—“ To God, to St. Mary, and to the saints that 
aie pations of this church, and to St. Denis, I commend myself and the church’s 
cause.” Therewith Sir Reginald Fitzurse striking a full blow at his head, chanced 
to light upon the arm of a clerk named Edward of Cambridge, who cast up his 
arm to save the archbishop ; but when he was not able to bear the weight of the 
blow, he plucked his arm back, and so the stroke staid upon the archbishop’s 
head, in such wise that the blood ran down by his face. Then they stroke at him 
one after another, and though he fell to the ground at the second blow, yet they 
left him not till they had cut and pushed out his brains, and dashed them about 
upon the church pavement. All this being done, they rifled his house, spoiled his 
goods, and took them to their own uses, supposing it lawful for them being the 
king’s servants so to do. 

But doubting how the matter would be taken, after they had wrought their feat, 
they got them into the bishopric of Durham, there to remain till they might hear 
how the king would take this their unlawful enterprise ; though (as they alledged) 
they had lustily defended his cause, and revenged his quarrel as faithful servants 
ought to do. Howbeit, it chanced otherwise than they looked it should have done ; 





THE DEATH OF THOMAS 'A BECKET. 


220 


THIERRY.] 


for king Henry gave them so little thanks for their presumptuous act, sounding to 
the evil example of other in breach of his lav/s, that they despairing utterly of 
pardon, fled one into one place, and another into another, so that within four years 
they all died an evil death (as it hath been reported). 


CC—THE KING AND TIIE ARCHBISHOP. 

George Parley. 

(From Thomas a Bechet, a Dramatic Chronicle.) 

The Council Room. 

Henry, De Lacy , Cornwall, Be Eynsford , Archbishop of York ; Bishops of Winchester, 

Salisbury, London, Norwich ; Glanville. 

Henry. Glanville !—there is a thing I’d say to you 
Before we enter on this business. 

What was it 1 Pshaw ! my head is in the mists, 

Or they in it !—0 ! true !—we must not, Glanville, 

Let these poor squabbles ’tween that priest and us 
Prejudice noble matters. You can guess 
What’s in my mind. 

Glanville . I judge, sir, as you speak 
Of nobler matters, you must mean the cause 
You’ve had so much at heart—the restitution, 

Betterment, stablishment, and general use 
Of that, long fallen into desuetude, 

That noblest of all noble things which man 
Ever invented for behoof of man, 

Trial of all accused, by their sworn peers 
Called jurors ; and the name of the said practice,—- 
Which shall go sounding down to latest times 
Join’d with your own, as its chief advocate, 

Trial by jury. 

Henry. Yea, good Ranulph, yea ; 

• But you great lawyers, in your deep research. 

And dabbling in a flood of words, oft sink 
Out of the common sight, like birds called divers, 

Than which you’re more long-winded : mend that fault ! 

You have been pondering o’er the theme, I see, 

And that was well. Draw up your thoughts upon it 
For my perusal, and in plain short terms ; 

D’ye hear % 

Glanville. They shall be brief, my gracious liege ! 

Enter De Bohun, Clare and Leicester. 

Henry. Ha ! whence come ye ? 

Leicester. From the round church, my liege 

Beside us here ; where Becket was at mass. 

Henry. So ! ye look grave : as if he being at prayers, 

Did more than merely recommend his soul 

To God and ours to Satan. Heard ye aught strange ? 

Be Bohun. Nought strange in such a darer, though ’twere monstrous 

In any other man ! 

Henry. What was that, ha 1 

Clare. Besides his affectation palpable 







HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[GEORGE PARLEY. 


2o0 


Save to the mole-eyed people, of distress, 
Disaster’d state, rapt piety, resignment, 

Sanctified patience, sufferance supreme, 

By dress, air, act, long moan, loud sob, large tears, 
He ordered as introit to the service, 

With blasphemous self-allusion —Princes sat 
And spake against one. 

Henry. Oh ! he would set up 

As mark’d for martyrdom !—with that angel face 
Of his,—the Syrian blackmoor’s son !—Himself 
Persecutor of his king ! 

Leicester. He comes, my liege ; 

His meekness Comes ! 


Enter Bechet , arrayed ioi purple and pall , with his Crosier elevated , and a pyt'oud 

retinue 

Hemp. Heyday ! the Pope of Canterbury ! 

Or Babylonian Lady all a-flame 
For hot contest !—What think ye, cousins, are we 
To have our heads broke with the pastoral cross 1 
Bechet. I bear it for my sole protection ! 

Henry. Ay! 

What dread’st thou ? else than paying thy just debts 
To me and to the state \ Dost need protection 
Against thy creditors, like a prodigal ? 

Glanville, that scroll ! [Readioig. 

Item ; three hundred pounds,— 

Which thou didst levy upon Eye and Berkham, 

Lately thy honours ; Item ; five hundred marks, 

I lent thee at Toulouse ; Item ; five hundred,— 

For which I stood thy surety to a Jew, 

Whom thou dealt’st much with, till thy credit broke, 

What time thou wallowedst in the wanton streams 
Of luxury most dissolute ; besides 
An item, which to small rogues we set down 
Plain theft, but to thy grace embezzlement,— 

Forty-four thousand marks, the balance due 
From rents, proceeds, and profits of all prelacies, 

Abbeys, and baronies, by thee administer’d 
When Chancellor. Item— 

Bechet. My liege ! my liege ! my liege ! 

Henry. Oh ! I am then thy sovereign yet, it seems ! 

Most affable subject, still to call me liege !— 

(To hionself ) I’ve snapt that nerve which keeps up most men’s pride. 
The purse-strings ! 

Bechet. I did never lack allegiance,— 

But for my lavishness as Chancellor, 

Call it more loose than his who lets the wealth 
Of Tagus’ bed roll down by golden shoals 
Into the wasteful ocean,—’twas a thing 
Poised as magnificence in the minister 













GEORGE BARLEY.] 


THE KING AND THE ARCHBISHOP. 


23i 


Which made for the more glory of the master, 

Whose humour uow condemns it !—was he, sire, 

Who had been found a fraudful Chancellor 

Deem’d fit to be a Primate ? 

Henry. ’Tis not what 

He had been deem’d, but what we’ve proved him since. 

Bechet. Crying injustice ! able to bring down 
Those spheres in molten fragments on mankind,. 

But that ’twould crush the guiltless with the guilty ! 

Henry. Thank heaven we have one milk-white soul among us ; 
Thou scarlet sinner !—why—my gorge is swoln 
With names, not huge enough for thy vast insolence ! 

Tell me this—thou—who claim’st the saintship next 
Vacant i’ the calendar,—this, immaculate !— 

Thou didst subscribe in these law-guarded terms 
‘ Legally, with good faith, and without fraud, 

Without reserve,’—to certain constitutions, 

Which thou abjur’st now : does such perjury 

Merit no lapidation from the spheres 

If they did hurl their hissing firestones at us ? 

. Becket . There was no perjury ! 

Henry. Hear this ! hear this ! — 

Sun-dwelling truth, hast thou not one bright dart 

To strike him through the brain with ? ye, grave Suffragans ! 

[To the Bishops, 

Did your supreme here (give me your corporate voice), 

Swear to our constitutions, ^ea 01 no ? 

Bishops. Yea !• , . , r ,, , 

Bechet. Foolish children that would judge their father . 

I kept to what I swore, those constitutions, 

While they were such : but when a power beyond 
Thine to enact, annull’d them, how could I 

Observe non-entities 1 

Henry. Fraud within fraud ! 

In this same wise you may play fast and loose 
With any oath ; may be, for aught I know 
My very true, sworn subject, on proviso, 

Till you’re absolved by bull into a traitor ! 

Bechet. His Ploliness can ne’er absolve, except 
To save or serve the church. 

Henry. Yes, y ou ma y load 

The winds with loyal oaths, to place your heart 
Between mine and all stabbers, yet, even now, 

Bear in one sleeve a permit to kill kings, 

And in the other a poniard ? 

Bechet. My dear liege ! 

This is uncharitable. 

Henry To save the church ! 

To save the church, man !—Did the Romish altar 
Burn for thy sovereign, as a sacrifice, 

Thou’rt bound to slaughter him 1-0 Thomas Thomas ! 
Could I e’er think that thou would’st pierce the heart 





232 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


GEORGE DARLEY 


Of thy kind, loving, generous, royal master 1 

BecJcet. Not generous now to say I’d pierce thy heart ! 

Henry. Thou hast done so !—if not with knife or brand, 

With keen-cold weapon of ingratitude, 

More poignant still !—But ’tis no matter : go ! 

There is a gulf as wide as heaven from hell 
Between us, across which ’tis vain to think 
Of ever shaking hands !—I am thy enemy, 

To thy perdition or my own ! 

JBedet. I know it. 

So would betake me into banishment, 

And save a sacrilege unto thy soul. 

Henry. Good man!—Thou would’st betake thyself to Louis, 

To the French court, which breeds intriguants, 

Fast as Lutetian filth breeds vermin vile, 

Against my kingdom.—Twice thou hadst fled thither, 

But that the roaring winds, our rough allies, 

Forbade thy ship to fetch and carry treason ! 

My very seas rose up, upon my side, 

Against thy steps !—Stay, and be baited here, 

Till thy proud dewlaps drop with sweat and foam !— 

As a first humblement, thy goods and chattels 
Be all confiscate for contempt of court 
And breach of fealty, in not attending 
Our summons, when John Mareschal appeal’d thee 
About the manour of Pagehain. 

Becket. On that summons 

I, being sick, sent four good household knights 
To plead for me. Was this contempt ? Was this 
Devoir left unperform’d ?—Yea, when the cause 
Itself, was weigh’d at mine own spiritual court 
In scales which might have dropp’d from Libra stars, 

As nice as conscience trims with trembling hand.— 

Henry. Ha ! ha ! 

Becket. Sir ! sir ! ’tis truth ; and he who here 

By royal subornation brings that cause, 

Would blush for it,—but before this grave council, 

Like it iniquitous ! 

[The Barons start up, and Beckefs train advance. Becket raises his Crosier 
and Henry his Sceptre between them. 

Henry. These sacred wands, 

Not unanointed sw r ords, decide the fray ! 

Archbishop, from thy last words, if no more, 

I see thou art a seif-devoted man 

Unto destruction imminent !—Take your way. 

Winchester. My liege, accept two thousand marks from him, 

In lieu of all demands. 

Henry. I will not, Winchester ! 

But thou another froward priest, de Blois, 

Whose mitre coped thy brother Stephen’s crown, 

Shalt pronounce sentence for the full amount. 

[ They retire some paces 



GEORGE DARJEY.] THE KING AND THE ARCHBISHOP. * 

Norwich (to Bechet). My lord, beseech you on my knees, submit, 
Or you, the church, and all of us are lost! 

Salisbury (to him). We cannot be thy sureties for such sum, 

Though for the less we might. 

York (to him). Take exhortation 

From one a Primate like thyself, and moved 
By most disinterested love,—resign 
Tin- see, to gain full peace, release, and pardon. 

London (to him). ’Twas thou thyself who led’st us to subscribe 

The constitutions, yet, when all too late, 

Would’st have us now proclaim ourselves, with thee 
Rebels to royal power, and renegades 
To our own oaths ! 

Becket. Folliott, thou shalt be ever 

A stench i’ the nostril of posterity ! 

Thou art corrupted, man ! Primate of York, 

This pall is much too weighty for thy shoulders ! 

Sarum, I always knew thee as a gryphon, 

Keeping thy claw fast on thy hoarded gold ! 

Poor Norwich, thou art pitiful!—ye suffragans, 

[:Turning to the other Bishops who implore him. 

Ay, who w-ill suffer again, again, again, 

(Spare me the pertinent quibble !) all the ills 
That tyranny can heap on callous meanness, 

Repose your deprecative arms ! they'll soon 
Have beggar’s-work enough, when ye are turn’d 
, By foes o’ the church against whom ye raise no finger, 

To mendicant monks and alms men !—stay me not, 

I will go forward ! 

York. There’s no stopping some men 

Upon their course down the steep fall of ruin! 

Becket. ’Tis plain, sir King ! lord of these lower skies ! 

• . Where you point all your thunderbolts. But let them 
Break first on this bare head, as yon poor image 
Placed shelterless aloft that pinnacle 
Bears with mild brow the elemental brunt 
To shield his fane beneath ! . Thou hast resolved, 

I know, thy throne shall rise* above all height 
Upon the ruins of the downcast church, 
phy Babel-towering throne, from which shall come 
Confusion o’er the land !—Have then thy will ! 

On this offensive mount, flourish a time, 

Perish eternally ! 

Henry. At thy behest 1 

Becket. There is a throne, compared to earthly ones, 

Higher than heaven above the hills: dread thence 
Thunderings, which shall shake thy throne to dust, 

And bury thyself beneath it, and thy barons 
Send down with blasted fronts, to be the spurn 
Of devils less degraded towards tlieir king ! 

Henry. All this, because I summon a state debtor, 

Punish a peculator, and attach 






234 


HA1.F~ HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[GEORGE DARLEY. 


The goods of a respectless feudatory— 

By Mahmoud, that’s strange doctrine ! 

Bechet. Mere pretences 

To crush the church in me!—I do appeal 
’Gainst all your sentences and penalties 
Unto the Pope ; and henceforth do commit 
To his safeguard, myself and my whole See ! „ 

Barons. High treason, an appeal to Rome ! 

Bechet. High traitor, 

I then !—too high for ye to touch !—though graspers 
For whom the sacristy holds no sacred things ! 

Nay, scowl on others, king !—it daunts not me !— 

Thou—thou should’st rather quail beneath my frown ! 

Thy sword may kill the body, but this staff, 

Sword of the militant church, which I do wield, 

Can kill the soul ! 

Henry. Pronounce his sentence straight ! 

He is deprived of all his lands and holdings ! 

Bechet. I will not drink pollution through mine ears ! 

Breathe it not, Winchester ! till I am gone, 

Lest it scorch up thy lips to whitest ashes ! 

Henry. Hear how the wolf can howl! 

Bechet. Since impious men 

Whom strength makes wrongful, wrongfulness makes strong, 
Plunder-swoln, gross with produce of all crime, 

Band them against the battlements of heaven 
On earth, to wit the bulwarks of the church.— 

Henry. He means his turreted Elysium 
At Saltwood Park, to touch which we are Titans ! 

Bechet. And have decreed its sole defender here, 

Me !^-me !—most violently trampled down— 

Their mounting step to that assault sacrilegious,— 

Henry. Why thou wert far above our reach but now ? 

Bechet. Since prayer, plaint, rhetoric’s mingled honey and gall. 
Cannot withhold them from the fathomless pit 
Gaping beneath their steps,—if they must follow 
Satan’s dark inspirations to such deeds, 

Flagitious, dreadless, godless—which mute heaven 
Permits, but weeps at—good men’s mazement, 

The angels’ horror— 

Henry. Wipe from thy blest mouth 

That surge of foam ! 

Bechet. Since then, perverse ! thou seem’st 

Desperate on self and state destruction both, 

What more but this can parting Becket say,— 

Thine and hell’s will be done ! [ Exit 

Henry. The wolf’s dog-mad ! 


. [Scene closes. 



BURKE.] 


THE GREATNESS OF THE CLERGY. 


235 


67—THE GREATNESS OE THE CIERGY. 


Burke. 


It will not be unpleasing to pause a moment at this remarkable period, in order 
to view in what consisted that greatness of the clergy, which enabled them to bear 
so very considerable a sway in all public affairs ; what foundations supported the 
weight of so vast a power ; whence it had its origin ; what was . :e nature and 
what the ground, of the immunities they claimed ; that we may the more fully 
enter into this important controversy, and may not judge as some have incon¬ 
siderately done, of the affaire of those times by ideas taken from the present man- 

n6 It istuffiSly known, that the first Christians, avoiding the Pagan tribunals 
tri d most even of their civil causes before the bishop, who, though he had no direct 
coercive power yet, wielding the sword of excommunication had wherewithal to 
enforce the execution of his judgments. Thus the bishop had a considerable sway 
in temporal affairs, even before he was armed by the temporal power. But . le 
emperors no sooner became Christian, than, the idea of profaneness being removed 

thought decent, t , clergy likewise, who were sup- 

ecclesiastical superiors. _ T > rigdiction< t he condition of things whilst 

sirtfiii.. - -,«», 

another light, ihe bai oana B according to their notions, was m- 

them landthey. g^hemjmis« which, ^ccor ^ ; and ^ ^ the ord 

separable fiom t. ^ ha d ^irs and were no less sturdy to preserve, and 

had their privileges the b y * ’ having united the church dignities to 

ambitious to extend t em. 0 g0 t ,= ecclesast ical with the temporal 

the secular dignities of baro , , almost impossible to separate them, 

power in the same persons, that it became almost impose P 

The ecclesiastical was however Plated in only , but the 

supported it -VTS r rld y tt clejy to the excess of this greatness. The 
necessity, of the times ,that ™ . remai f ed who ll y in their hands. Tew among 
little learning, which then subsi. , , l p ,A ere proper for public 

the laity could even read ; consequently the cergyalone were p op 1 

affairs. They were the statesmen,they’sherds of counties, and 
taken the bailiffs of the seignoria com , ^ ^ The Norman kings, always 

almost constantly the justiciaries , t JL lov them In abbeys the law was 

jealous of their order, were a ways forced ti employ» Custody of the 

studied ; abbeys were the palUdmms of thepublic hberty y ^ ^ , )y fteir 
royal charters, and most of the records. ’ , dful to a p by the power 

knowledge, venerable to the poor by «ir hosjut. , every thing in 

of excommunication, the charactei ot the ciei 0 y 





23G HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [BURKE. 

the state ; and it could no more be otherwise in those days, than it is possible it 
should be so in ours. 

William the Conqueror made it one principal point of his politics to reduce the 
clergy ; but all the steps he took in it were not equally well calculated to answer 
this intention. When he subjected church lands to military service, the clergy 
complained bitterly, as it lessened their revenue ; but I imagine it did not lessen 
their power in proportion ; for by this regulation they came, like other great lords, 
to have their military vassals, who owed them homage and fealty ; and this rather 
increased their consideration amongst so martial a people. The kings, who suc¬ 
ceeded him, though they also aimed at reducing the ecclesiastical power, never 
pursued their scheme on a great or legislative principle. They seemed rather de¬ 
sirous of enriching themselves by the abuses in the church, than earnest to correct 
them. One day they plundered, and the next day they founded monasteries, as 
their rapaciousness or their scruples chanced to predominate ; so that every attempt 
of that kind, having rather the air of tyranny than reformation, could never be 
heartily approved, or seconded by the body of the people. 

The bishops must always be considered in the double capacity of clerks and 
barons. Their courts, therefore, had a double jurisdiction ; over the clergy and 
laity of their diocese, for the cognizance of crimes against ecclesiastical law, and 
over the vassals of their barony, as lords paramount. But these two departments, 
so different in their nature, they frequently confounded by making use of the spiri¬ 
tual weapon of excommunication to enforce the judgments of both ; and this sen¬ 
tence, cutting off the party from the common society of mankind, lay equally heavy 
on all ranks ; for, as it deprived the lower sort of the fellowship of their equals, 
and the protection of their lord, so it deprived the lord of the services of his vassals, 
whether he or they lay under the sentence. This was one of the grievances which 
the king proposed to redress. 

As some sanction of religion is mixed with almost every concern of civil life, and 
as the ecclesiastical court took cognizance of all religious matters, it drew to itself 
not only all questions relative to tithes and advowsons, but whatever related to 
marriages, wills, the estate of intestates ; the breaches of oaths and contracts ; in a 
word, everything, which did not touch life, or feudal property. 

The ignorance of the bailiffs in lay-courts, who were only possessed of some 
feudal maxims and the traditions of an uncertain custom, made this recourse to 
the spiritual courts the more necessary, where they could judge with a little more 
exactness by the lights of the canon and civil laws. 

This jurisdiction extended itself by connivance, by necessity, by custom, by 
abuse, over lay persons and affairs. But the immunity of the clergy from lay cog¬ 
nizances was deemed not only as a privilege essential to the dignity of their order, 
supported by the canons, and countenanced by the Roman law, but as a right con¬ 
firmed by all the ancient laws of England. 

Christianity, coming into England out of the bosom of the Roman empire, 
brought along with it all those ideas of immunity. The first trace we can find of 
this exemption from lay jurisdiction in England, is in the laws of Etheldred ; it is 
more fully established in those of Canute ; but in the code of Henry the First it is 
twice distinctly affirmed. This immunity from the secular jurisdiction, whilst it 
seemed to encourage acts of violence in the clergy towards others, encouraged also 
the violence of others against them. The murder of a clerk could not be punished 
at this time with death ; it was against a spiritual person ; an offence wholly spiri¬ 
tual, of which the secular courts took no sort of cognizance. In the Saxon times 
two circumstances made such an exemption less a cause of jealousy ; the sheriff sat 
with the bishop, and the spiritual jurisdiction was, if not under the control, at least 





BURKE. 


THE GREATNESS OF THE CLERGY. 


coy 
£ U i 


under the inspection of the lay officer ; and then, as neither laity nor clergy were 
capitally punished for any offence, this privilege did not create so invidious and 
glaring a distinction between them. Such was the power of the clergy, and such 
the immunities, which the king proposed to dimmish. 


68.—PENANCE OF*HENRY II. Thierry. 

[Much of the latter portion of Henry’s life and reign presents “ involved and 
deplorable scene of family discord and contention ; sons against the r fathe 
against husband, brother against brother. His eldes son Henjy had noUinlytem 
invested with the earldoms of Maine and Anjou, but, being then * 5 _ea,s o 

age, had, after the custom which prevailed in the French monarchy been as he„ 
apparent, solemnly crowned in Westminster Abbey on Sunday, IStho^June 11 0 
On this account that prince is in old writings sometimes styledl Henry III, and 
his common title during his life was from this date the juinoror : S ’ 
that of the senior or elder king being given to his father. In 11 / 2 the ceiei y 
of his corddtion was repeated, ? his wife Margaret of France ”w 

along with him. Soon after this, at the instigation, it is sald ’f 

broth.. Eichord ..d O»«oo ; , O 0» hoZ" C to 

marriage and his investiture some y territory About the same time 

similar claim to the immediate possession of that tc > 1 3 • rebel ii 0 n 0 f her 

Eleanor also left her husband to associate hersel op i y infidelities and 

sons, of which she had in fact been t ic pi 1 'k+o*bitter hatred and thirst of revenge, 
neglect had long changed this woman s love into bitter , lexed it wou ld 

She was also making her way for the: French^ court. when 

seem, by the awkwardness of seeking ie pio ^ t Henry, during the 

she was* caught dressed in man’s clothes and brought back to He ^ g 

rest of whose life she remained in confinement, Henry was 

break uprthe unnatoaloonfe^era^of Scotland> an d by some of the 

supported no on y y Norman and the English barons. With his character- 
most powerful botn oi tne x „ r . 1Tiar ] P re adv to meet his various 

-—- - 

two years.] 

of them, Geoffrey, Bishop of Lmcoli, c orm0 site party Meanwhile Richard 

the castles and fortresses of the barons *^'S own cause, and it was 
fortified the towns and castles of Poicto g BrabanioDS, leaving Nor- 

against him that the king first marcheawrth hl ” U 0 V efend itself against the 
mandy, in which he had the greatest was then defended by 

king of France. He laid siege to the town ’ the memory of ancient 

two castles, one of which bore the name of the Capitola .re ^ After having 

j>ome, which was preserved in many of the cities oi 










238 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY. 

taken the strongholds of Saintes, Henry II. attacked with his engines of war the 
two large towers of the cathedral, in which Richard’s partisans had taken up their 
quarters. He took this as well as the fort of Taillebury and several other castles, 
and, on his way back to Anjou, he devastated all the frontiers of the country of the 
Poitevins, burning the towns, and uprooting the vines and fruit-trees. He had 
scarcely arrived in Normandy when he learnt that his eldest son and the Earl of 
Flanders, having collected a great naval armament, were preparing to make a descent 
on England. This news determined him to embark for that country ; he carried 
with him, as prisoners, his wife Eleanor, and his son’s wife, Margaret, daughter of 
the French king. 

From Southampton, where he disembarked, the king proceeded towards Canter¬ 
bury, and as soon as he came in sight of the metropolitan church, that is to say, at 
three miles distance from the town, he descended from his horse, laid aside his 
silk apparel, took off his boots, and set off walking barefoot along the flinty and 
muddy road. When he arrived in the church which contained the tomb of Thomas 
a Becket, he prostrated himself, with his face to the earth, crying and weeping, in 
presence of all the people of the town, who had been assembled by the sound of 
the bells. The Bishop of London, that same Gilbert Foliot, who had persecuted 
Thomas throughout his whole, life, and who, after his death, had wished that his 
corpse might be thrown into a ditch, mounted the pulpit, and addressing himself to 
the congregation, said : u All you here present, know that Henry, King of England, 
calling on God and the holy martyr for the salvation of his soul, protests before 
you, that he neither commanded, nor willed, nor willingly caused, nor desired in 
his heart the death of the martyr. But as it is possible that the murderers may 
have taken advantage of some words imprudently uttered by him, he declares that 
he implores his penance from the bishops here assembled, and consents to submit 
his naked flesh to the discipline of rods.” 

Accordingly the king, accompanied by a great number of Norman bishops and 
abbots, and by all the Norman and Saxon monks of the chapter of Canterbury, 
descended to the crypt, where, two years before, they had been obliged to shut up the 
corpse of the archbishop as in a fort, to defend it from the insults of the royal 
officers and soldiers. There, kneeling on the stone of the tomb, and divesting 
himself of all his clothing, he placed himself, with his back bare, in the same attitude 
in which his justiciaries had on a former occasion caused those Englishmen to be 
placed, who had been publicly flogged for having welcomed Thomas on his return 
from exile, or for having honoured him as a saint. Each of the bishops, whose 
part in the ceremony had been arranged beforehand, took one of the whips with 
several lashes which were used in monasteries to inflict ecclesiastical corrections, 
and which were therefore called disciplines : each one gave three or four stripes 
with this upon the shoulders of the prostrate king, saying : “ As the Redeemer was 
scourged for the sins of men, so be thou for thy own sins.” From the hands of 
the bishops the discipline passed into that of the monks, who were very numerous, 
and for the most part of the English race. These sons of those who had been 
made serfs by the Conquest, imprinted the stripes of a whip upon the flesh of the 
Conqueror’s grandson, and this was not without a secret joy, as is betrayed by 
some bitter pleasantries which we meet with in the recitals of that time. 

But the momentary joy and triumph could not be productive of any good to the 
English population ; on the contrary, this people was made the dupe of this ignoble 
scene of hypocrisy which was performed before them by the Angevin king. Henry 
II., finding almost all his continental subjects opposed to him, had felt his need of 
the support of the Anglo-Saxons ; he thought that a few stripes of discipline would 
be a trifling thing if it would render him the same service with this people, whom 


l 




THIERRY •] 


PENANCE OF HENRY II. 


23‘.) 


he had despised in his fortunate days, as promises and false vows had formerly 
rendered his grandfather Henry I. Ever since the murder of Thomas a Becket 
love for this pretended martyr had become the passioD, or rather the mac ness o 
the English people. The adoration of the memory of the archbishop had replaced 
that of the old laws, hitherto so much regretted ! all recollections of ancient 1 ci y 
were effaced by the more recent impression of the nine years during w lc a 
primate of the Saxon race had been the object of the hopes, the vows, and t e co - 
vernation of every Saxon. A striking testimony of sympathy withi this^popular 
sentiment was then the best bait that the king could at that time hold o t to t 
men of the English race, to attract them to h.s cause, and to re “^them, 
words of an old historian, manageable with curb and harness Such was the true 
motive of Henry II.’s pilgrimage to the tomb of him whom he had fiist loved as 
his boon companion, and then mortally hated as his political enemy. 

“After hXg been thus scourged by his own free-will,” says the contemporary 
historian “ he continued his orisons before the holy martyr all the day and all night 
took no nourishment, and did not leave the spot for any occasion whatever but 
Is i le cam e s0 he remained, and did not allow any carpet, or anything of the kind 
i it 4.-1 1 •_ i-m ppq After matins he made the circuit of the higliei 

chur^ pmyedtetm aU the altars and all the relics, then returned to the vault of 
^ Q , 1 whpn the sun was risen, he asked for and heaid mass, 

then having drunk “holy’water of the martyr and having filled a flask with it, lie 

^ TWs^comedy^ was’^ntteely successful; and there was great enthusiasm among 

the Ando SaxTn serfs of the town and the neighbouring country, on the day when 
the Anglo baxomseiis h king had made his reconciliation with 

it was announced in the otumhes toat “e S ^ this tim6) that William, 

this victory an evident sign of £ k fng whom the new saint seemed to 

this day they inclined to the «iu the English enrolled them- 

favour. In consequence of this euperstit P , ardour against the 

selves in crowds under the loyalbtinne^, |. g ^ brothers , Poor and 

abettors of the revolt of Henry the 5 mass of the inhabitants, and 

despised though hey The N 01 •man malcontents were 
nothing can resist such a tftk f n by a ; saultj and a great number of earls 

defeated m every county, t ^ 4 we re taken,” says a contemporary, “ that 

and bar 0 nS ,“ a t .nhv"n finding cords sufficient to bind them, and prisons to contain 
h™ Th® raph trffin of°successes put an end to the project of a descent upon 
E„ “and, formed by Henry the younger and the Earl of Flanders. 


09 


.—THE CONQUEST OF IRELAND. 


Burke. 


Between the death of Becket and the king’s absolu ^ 

lion of a design, by which he customs, and 

separated from the rest of Europe by its situation t difference but 

way of life of the inhabitants j for the people of ^ The ^ 

that of religion, still retained the native ° f ^ Hg r ° igIlj and ff ad obtained 

had meditated this design from the very o ^ lisbman to authorize the at- 
a Bull from the then Pope, Adrian the Fourth, an Engiisnma , 








2 40 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [BURKE. 

tempt. He well knew, from the internal weakness, and advantageous situation of 
this noble island, the easiness and importance of such a conquest. But at this par¬ 
ticular time he was strongly urged to his engaging* personally in the enterprise by 
two other powerful motives. For, first, the murder of Becket had bred very ill 
humour in his subjects, the chief of whom, always impatient of a long peace, were 
glad of any pretence for rebellion ; it was therefore expedient, and serviceable to 
the crown, to find an employment abroad for this spirit, which could not exert 
itself without being destructive at home. And, next, as he had obtained the grant 
of Ireland from the Pope, upon condition of subjecting it to Peterpence, he knew 
that the speedy performance of this condition would greatly facilitate his recovering 
the good graces of the court of Rome. Before we give a short narrative of the re¬ 
duction of Ireland, I propose to lay open to the reader the state of that kingdom, 
that we may see what grounds Henry had to hope for success in this expedition. 

Ireland is about half as large as England. In the temperature of the climate 
there is little difference, other than that more rain falls ; as the country is more 
mountainous and exposed full to the westerly wind, which blowing from the Atlantic 
Ocean prevails during the greater part of the year. This moisture, as it has en¬ 
riched the country with large and frequent rivers, and spread out a number of fair 
and magnificent lakes, beyond the proportion of other places, has on the other hand 
encumbered the island with an uncommon multitude of bogs and morasses ; so that 
in general, it is less praised for corn than pasturage, in which no soil is more rich 
and luxuriant. Whilst it possesses these internal means of wealth, it opens on all 
sides a great number of ports, spacious and secure, and by their advantageous situa¬ 
tion inviting to universal commerce. But on these ports, better known than those 
of Britain in the time of the Romans, at this time there were few towns, scarce any 
fortifications, and no trade, that deserves to be mentioned. 

The people of Ireland lay claim to a very extravagant antiquity, through a vanity 
common to all nations. The accounts vdiich are given by their ancient chronicles, 
of their first settlements, are generally tales confuted by their own absurdity. The 
settlement of the greatest consequence, the best authenticated, and from which the 
Irish dedqce the pedigree of the best families, is derived from Spain ; it was called 
Clan Milea, or the descendants of Milesius, and Kin Scuit, or the race of Scyths, 
aftenvards known by the name of Scots. The Irish historians suppose this race 
descended from a person called Gathel, a Scythian by birth, an ^Egyptian by educa¬ 
tion, the contemporary and friend of the prophet Moses. But these histories, 
seeming clear-sighted in the obscure affairs of so blind an antiquity, instead of 
passing for treasuries of ancient facts, are regarded by the judicious as modern 
fictions. In cases of this sort rational conjectures are more to be relied on than 
improbable relations. It is more probable that Ireland v r as first peopled from 
Britain. The coasts of these countries are in some places in sight of each other. 
The language, the manners, and religion of the most ancient inhabitants of both 
are nearly the same. The Milesian colony, whenever it arrived in Ireland, could 
have made no great change in the manners or language, as the ancient Spaniards 
were a branch of the Celtoe, as well as the old inhabitants of Ireland. The Irish 
language is not different from that of all other nations, as Temple and Rapin, 
from ignorance of it, have asserted. On the contrary, many of its words bear a 
remarkable resemblance not only to those of the Welsh and Armorick, but also to the 
Greek and Latin. In either is the figure of the letters very different from the vulgar 
character, though their order is not the same with that of other nations, nor the 
names, which are taken from the Irish proper names of several species of trees ; a 
circumstance, which, notwithstanding their similitude to the Roman letters, argues 
a different original and great antiquity. The Druid discipline anciently flourished 


burke.] 


THE CONQUEST OF IRELAND. 


24L 


in that island ; in the fourth century it fell down before the preaching oi St. 
Patrick • then the Christian religion was embraced, and cultivated with an uncom¬ 
mon zeal, which displayed itself in the number and consequence of the persons, 
who in all parts embraced the contemplative life. This mode of 1 e, anc tie 
situation of Ireland, removed from the horror of those devastations which shook 
the rest of Europe, made it a refuge for learning, almost extinguished every where 
else. Science flourished in Ireland during the seventh and oghth centuiies. 
same cause which destroyed it in other countries, also destroyed it there. ^ he 
Danes then Pagans, made themselves masters of the island after a long and was e- 
ful war in which they destroyed the sciences along with the monasteries, m which 
they V werelcultivated. ^ By as destructive a war they were .Umg*^pe tad ; bn 
neither their ancient science nor repose retured to the lush , who falim 0 
domestic distractions as soon as they were freed from theirforeignaremies, sunk 
quickly into a state of ignorance, poverty, and barbarism ; which be “ 

very great, since it exceeded that of the rest of Europe “ ““ 

church were equal to those in the civil economy, and furnished to the Pope a 
plausible pretext for giving Henry a commission to conquer the kingdom, m 01 

t0 Hie* Irish were divided into a number of tribes or clans, each clan forming 
the Insii veie u ordered bv a chief, who was not raised 

within itself a separate government It course of descent, but as the 

to that dignity either by election, or by the oidi y succession, 

eldest and worthiest of the blood of the deceased lord i 

called Tanistry, was said to have been a sufficient 

tribe, during a minority, should have bee < g h attended with 

leader. 2 was probably much more a>acien,™ a 7^i r 0 f difficulty to 
very great and pernnnous “ c °”™ nI ^ iest of the blood ; and a door being always 

tended to remedy. Almost eveiy n e,witHin itself. The chiefs we speak of 
ing tribes, nourished faction am c '“° ^ ()f more consideration Kiagh, or 

were in general called lierna, or J>> eminent than the rest, answerable 

Kings; over these were placed d anciently divided. These again 

^;r=ron:tilo “’ raised to that 

power by election, or moie piopei y s P , - a fj; sDOse d of by a sort of election, the 
Whilst the dignities of the state we: of mechanics, and even those 

office of judges, who were called re ’ nrincipally on natural genius, such 

arts which we are apt to races ; the" Irish ima- 

as poetry and music, weie con 1 derived from an early institution, and 

gining that greater advantages were to' “ , secrets of their art in their 

the affection of parents desirous °f P er P" ar fancy and application. This is 

families, than from the casual efforts of partieuto ^ o{ ^ Irish 

much in the strain of the ® as ^™ P ,°o preserve good arts and useful discipline when 
institutions, well enough caWated to p g caloulate d to prevent all improve- 

these arts came to degenerate, were equ y invincible tenaciousness of 

ruent, and to perpetuate corruption, by mtusin 0 an 

ancient customs. orldirted to pasturage than agriculture, 

The people of Ireland were much moreadd ^ of the Scythian man- 

not more from the quality of then soi , forti fi e d each clan living dispersed 

nors. They had but few towns, and those not forced, e ^ ^ . they 

over its own territory. The few walled t h ; J conque sts in the inland 

were built by the Danes, and held after they had lost then i ^ 



2^2 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY, (BURKE, 

parts ; here was carried on tlie little foreign trade which the island then pos¬ 
sessed. 

The Irish militia was of two kinds ; one called Keons, which were foot, slightly 
armed with a long knife or dagger, and almost naked ; the other Gailoglasses, who 
were horse ; poorly mounted, and generally armed only with a battle-axe. Neither 
horse nor foot made much use of the spear, the sword, or the bow. With indifferent 
arms, they had still worse discipline. In these circumstances their natural bravery, 
which, though considerable, was not superior to that of their invaders, stood them 
in little stead. 

Such was the situation of things in Ireland, when Dermot, king of Leinster, 
having violently carried away the wife of one of the neighbouring petty sovereigns, 
Roderic, king of Connaught, and Monarch of Ireland, joined with the injured hus¬ 
band to punish so flagrant an outrage ; and with their united forces spoiled Dermot 
of his territories, and obliged him to abandon the kingdom. The fugitive prince, 
not unapprised of Henry's designs upon his country, threw himself at his feet, im¬ 
plored his protection, and promised to hold of him, as his feudatory, the sovereignty 
he should recover by his assistance. Henry was at this time at Guienne ; nothing 
could be more agreeable to him than such an incident; but as his French domi¬ 
nions actually lay under an interdict on account of his quarrel with Becket, and all 
his affairs, both at home and abroad, were in a troubled and dubious situation, it 
was not prudent to remove his person, nor venture any considerable body of his 
forces, on a distant enterprise. Yet not willing to lose so favourable an opportu¬ 
nity, he warmly recommended the cause of Dermot to his regency in England, per¬ 
mitting and encouraging all persons to arm in his favour : a permission, in this 
age of enterprise, greedily accepted by many ; but the person who brought the 
most assistance to it, and indeed gave a form and spirit to the whole design, was 
Bichard, Earl of Striaul, commonly known by the name of Strongbow. Dermot, to 
confirm in his interest this potent and warlike peer, promised him his daughter in 
marriage with the reversion of his crown. The beginnings of so great an enterprise 
were formed with a very slender force. Not four hundred men landed near Wex¬ 
ford ; they took the town by storm. When reinforced they did not exceed twelve 
hundred ; but, being joined with three thousand men by Dermot, with an incredible 
rapidity of success they reduced Waterford, Dublin, Limerick, the only considerable 
cities in Ireland. By the novelty of their arms they had obtained some striking 
advantages in their first engagements ; and by these advantages they attained a 
superiority of opinion over the Irish, which every success increased. Before the 
effect of this first impression had time to wear off, Henry, having settled his 
affairs abroad, entered the harbour of Cork with a fleet of four hundred sail, at once 
to secure the conquest, and the allegiance of the conquerors. The fame of so great 
a force arriving under a prince, dreaded by all Europe, very soon disposed all the 
petty princes, with their King Rod eric, to submit and do homage to Henry. They 
had not been able to resist the arms of his vassals, and they hoped better treatment 
from submitting to the ambition of a great king, who left them every thing but the 
honour of their independency, than from the avarice of adventurers, from which 
nothing was secure. The bishops and the body of the clergy greatly contributed 
to this submission, from respect to the Pope, and the horror of their late defeats, 
which they began to regard as judgments. A national council was held at Cashel 
for bringing the church of Ireland to a perfect conformity, in rites and discipline, 
to that of England. It is not to be thought, that in this council the temporal in¬ 
terests of England were entirely forgotten. Many of the English were established 
in their particular conquests under the tenure of knights-service, now first intro¬ 
duced into Ireland; a tenure, which, if it has not proved the best calculated to 










BURKE. ] 


THE CONQUEST OF IRELAND. 


5*43 


secure the obedience of the vassal to tne sovereign, has never failed in any instance 
of preserving a vanquished people in obedience to the conquerors. The Eoglis 1 
lords built strong castles on their demesnes ; they put themselves at the head ot % 
the tribes, whose chiefs they had slain ; they assumed the Irish garb and man¬ 
ners ; and thus partly by force, partly by policy, the first English families took a 
firm root in Ireland. It was indeed long before they were able entirely to subdue 
the island to the laws of England ; but the continual efforts of the Irish, for more 
than four hundred years, proved insufficient to dislodge them. 


70 .—THE DEATH OF ROSAMOND. 

[From ‘ Henry II.’ by Thomas May.] 

[The following poem, by one of our early poets, is founded upon the most commonly 
received tradition. The real history of Rosamond de Clifford is very obscure: we extract the 
following brief account from the Pictorial History of England : 

« The history of the 1 Fair Rosamond,’ has been enveloped in romantic traditions 
which have scarcely any foundation in truth, but which have taken so firm a hold 
on the popular mind, and have been identified with so much poetry, that t 
neither aVeasy nor a pleasant task to dissipate the fanciful illusion and unpcop.e 
the ‘ bower’ in the sylvan shades of Woodstock. Rosamond de Clifford was the 
daughter of a baron of Herefordshire, the beautiful site of whose antique castle in 
the valley of the Wye, is pointed out to the traveller between the town of the 
Welsh Hay and the city of Hereford, at a point where the most romantic of rivers, 
after foaming through its rocky, narrow bed in Wales, sweeps freely and tranquilly 
through an open English valley of surpassing loveliness. Henry became enamoured of 
her in his youth before he was a king, and the connexion continued for many years; 
but long before his death, and even long before his quarrel with his wife and legi- 
thnate sons Twith which it appears she had nothing to do) Rosamond retired to 
“rXo- and penitent life, into the ‘ little nunnery’ of Goaestow, m the 

‘ r '“IkTHenry S stillpreseive^gentle'aiK^generous feelings towards the object of Ms 

youthful and " firsIrThXr) the 

her account and when she l.eOJ, o^ ^ ^ indirect]y their benefac- 

““s’ buriedter iir their choir, hung a silken pall over her tomb, and kqfftapers 
constantly burning of all 

Thei chronicler ^ Option we possess of the 

century anc a . t p ati ; n or d er that she might not he ‘ easily 

secret bower of Rosamond .A’ a re „ ina fec ;i e deprehenderetur) Henry 

taken unawares iby ® e Jl ue <y J^er for this ‘ most sightly maiden,’ (puellm 
constructed, neai odesto ^ > nd not unU ke the Dmdalean labyrinth ; 

ESS'X”. r ... 

S; "n'i, ; a, i.*». “■—**“ 

of a still more modern date.” 

Fair Rosamond within her bower of late, 

(While these sad storms had shaken Henry s state 









244 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[THOMAS MAY, 


And lie from England last had absent been) 

Retir’d herself: nor had that star been seen 
To shine abroad, or with her lustre grace 
The woods, or walks adjoining to the place. 

About those places, while the times were free, 
Oft with a train of her attendants, she 
For pleasure walk’d ; and like the Huntress Queen, 
With her light nymphs, was by the people seen. 
Thither the country lads and swains, that near 
To Woodstock dwelt, would come to gaze on her. 
Their j oily May-games there would they present, 
Their harmless sports and rustic merriment, 

To give this beauteous paragon delight. 

Nor that officious service would she slight ! 

But their rude pastimes gently entertain, 

When oft some forward and ambitious swain, 

That durst presume (unhappy lad !) to look 
Too near that sparkling beauty, planet-struck 
Return’d from thence, and his hard hap did wail. 
What now [Alas !] can wake or fair avail 
His love-sick mind ? no whitsun-ale can please, 

No jingling morris-dancers give him ease ; 

The pipe and tabor have no sound at all, 

Nor to the may-pole can his measures call! 
Although invited by the merriest lasses, 

How little for those former joys he passes ? 

But sits at home with folded arms ; or goes 
To carve on beeches’ barks his piercing w T oes 
And too ambitious love. Cupid, they say, 

Had stol’n from Venus then : and lurking lay 
About the fields and villages, that nigh 
To Woodstock were, as once in Arcady 
He did before, and taught the rural swains 
Love’s Oratory, and persuasive strains. 

But now fair Rosamond had from the sight 
Of all withdrawn ; as in a cloud, her light 
Enveloped long, and she immured close 
Within her bower, since these sad stirs arose, 

For fear of cruel foes ; relying on 

The strength and safeguard of the place alone : 

If any place of strength enough could be 
Against a queen’s enraged jealousy. 

Now came that fatal day, ordain’d to see 
Th’ eclipse of beauty, and for ever be 
Accurst by woful lovers, all alone 
Into her chamber, Rosamond was gone; 

Where (as if fates into her soul had sent 
A secret notice of their dire intent) 

Afflicting thoughts possessed her as she sate, 

She sadly weigh’d her own unhappy state, 

Her feared dangers, and how far (alas) 

From her relief engaged Henry was. 



THOMAS MAY.] 


THE DEATH OF ROSAMOND. 


£45 


But most of all, while pearly drops distain’d 
Her rosy cheeks, she secretly complain’d, 

And wail’d her honour’s loss, wishing in vain 
She could recal her virgin state again ; 

When that unblemish’d form, so much admir d, 

Was by a thousand noble youths desir’d, 

And might have mov’d a monarch s lawful flame. 
Sometimes she thought how some more happy dame 
By such a beauty, as was hers, had won, 

From meanest birth, the honour of a throne ; 

And what to some could highest glories gain, 

To her had purchas’d nothing but a stain. 

There, when she found her crime, she check’d again 
That high aspiring thought, and ’gan complain, 

How much (alas) the too too dazzling light 
Of royal lustre had misled her sight; 

O ! then she wish’d her beauties ne’er had been 
Benown’d ! that she had ne er at court been seen . 
Nor too much pleas’d enamour’d Henry s eye. 

While thus she sadly mus’d, a ruthful cry 
Had pierc’d her tender ear, and in the sound 
Was nam’d (she thought) unhappy Rosamond. 

(The cry was utter’d by her grieved maid, 

From whom that clue was taken, that betray’d 
Her lady’s life), and while she doubting fear’d, 

Too soon the fatal certainty appear’d ; 

For with her train the wrathful queen was there ; 

Oh ! who can tell what cold and killing fear 
Through every part of Rosamond was shook ? 

The rosy tincture her sweet cheeks forsook, 

And like an ivory statue did she show 
Of life and motion reft; had she been so 
Transform’d indeed, how kind the fates had been, 
How pitiful to her ! nay, to the queen ! 

Even she herself did seem tq entertain 
Some ruth, but straight revenge return’d again, 

And fill’d her furious breast. “ Strumpet (quoth she) 
I need not speak at all; my sight may be 
Enough expression of my wrongs, and what 
The consequence must prove of such a hate. 

Here, take this poison’d cup (for in her hand 
A poison’d cup she had), and do not stand 
To parley now : but drink it presently, 

Or else by tortures be resolv’d to die. 

Thy doom is set.” Pale trembling Rosamond 
Receives the cup, and kneeling on the ground, 

When dull amazement somewhat had forsook 
Her breast, thus humbly to the queen she spoke. 

“ I dare not hope you should so far relent, 

Great queen, as to forgive the punishment 
That to my foul offence is justly due. 

Nor will I vainly plead excuse, to shew 





246 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[THOMAS MAY. 


By what strong arts I was at first betray’d, 

Or tell how many subtle snares were laid 

To catch mine honour. These,, though ne’er so true, 

Can bring no recompense at all to you, 

Nor just excuse to my abhorred crime. 

Instead of sudden death, I crave but time, 

Which shall be styl’d no time of life but death, 

In which I may with my condemned breath, 

While grief and penance make me hourly die. 

Pour out my prayers for your prosperity ; 

Or take revenge on this offending face, 

That did procure you wrong, and my disgrace, 

Make poisonous leprosies o’erspread my skin ; 

And punish that, that made your Henry sin. 

Better content will such a vengeance give 
To you ; that he should loathe me whilst I live, 

Than that he should extend (if thus I die) 

His lasting pity to my memory, 

And you be forc’d to see, when I am dead, 

Those tears, perchance, which he for me will shed: 
For though my worthless self deserve from him 
No tears in death; yet when he weighs my crime, 

Of which he knows how great a part was his, 

And what I suffer as a sacrifice 

For that offence, ’t will grieve his soul to be 

The cause of such a double tragedy.” 

“ No more (reply’d the furious queen) ; have done; 
Delay no longer, lest thy chance be gone, 

And that a sterner death for thee remain.” 

No more did Rosamond, entreat in vain ; 

But forc’d by hard necessity to yield, 

Drank of the fatal potion that she held. 

And with it enter’d the grim tyrant death : 

Yet gave such respite, that her dying breath 
Might beg forgiveness from the heavenly throne, 

And pardon those that her destruction 

Had doubly wrought. “ Forgive, oh Lord,” said she, 

“ Him that dishonour’d, her that murder’d me. 

Yet let me speak, for truth’s sake, angry queen: 

If you had spar’d my life, I might have been 
In time to come th’ example of your glory ; 

Not of your shame, as now ; for when the story 
Of hapless Rosamond is read, the best 
And holiest people, as they will detest 
My crime, and call it foul, they will abhor, 

And call unjust, the rage of Elianor, 

And in this act of yours it will be thought 
King Henry’s sorrow, not his love you sought.” 

And now so far the venom’s force assail’d 
Her vital parts, that life with language fail’d. 

That well-built palace where the Graces made 
Their chief abode, where thousand Cupids play’d 


THOMAS MAY.] 


THE DEATH OF ROSAMOND. 


247 


And couch’d their shafts, whose structure did delight 
Ev’n nature’s self, is now demolish’d quite, 

Ne’er to be rais’d again ; the untimely stroke 
Of death, that precious cabinet has broke, 

That Henry’s pleased heart so long had held. 

With sudden mourning now the house is fill’d; 

Nor can the queen’s attendants, though they fear 
Her wrath, from weeping at that sight forbear. 

By rough north blasts so blooming roses fade 
So crushed falls the lily’s tender blade. 

Her hearse at Godstowe Abbey they inter, 

Where sad and lasting monuments of her, 

For many years did to the world remain. 

Nought did the queen by this dire slaughter gain, 

But more her lord’s displeasure aggravate ; 

And now when he return’d in prosperous state, 

This act was cause, together with that crime, 

Of raising his unnatural sons ’gainst him, 

That she so long in prison was detain’d, 

And whilst he lived, her freedom never gain’d. 


71 .— ADMINISTRATION OF THE LAWS. 

G. L. Craik. 

From the ‘ Pictorial History of England.’ 

Among the things that most strike us on first looking at this period of our legai 
and iudicial history are the substitution of general and central for local judicatures, 
and the appointment of judges regularly trained to a knowledge of the law, to pre¬ 
side in the several courts. Soon after the conquest great inconveniences appear to 
have been felt from the adminstration of justice in the county courts, hundred 
courts and courts baron. These inconveniences arose from various causes of 
' . I’, „ 1T ,i according to Sir Mathew Hale, were the three following 1 st. 

Se ignoiAce Of the judges, who were the freeholders of the county. “ For,” says 
Hale" although the alderman or chief constable of every hundred was always to 
be a man learned in the laws, and although not only the freeholders but the bishops, 
baron“ and meat men, were, by the laws of king Henry I appointed to attend the 
b " “ ? vet they seldom attended there, or, if they did, in process of time they 

laws, as great men usually do.” 2 ndly. The cheat 

yIeiety of laws, the effect of several independent jurisdictions Glanv.lle says, 

“The customs of the lords’ courts are so numerous and various that it is scarcely 

PCS ibie to reduce them into writing.” 3 rdiy. The corruption and intimidation 

practised • for all the business of any moment was carried by parties and factions. 

P rfis nrolnble however, that we are to seek for the mam causes of the subversion 

of L andent system in certain changes which the very principle of that system 
°t tne ano t ^ , we s p a p now proceed to consider. 

Wa Of these P changes the Lost important and fundamental was the establishment of 

the trial by iurL The essential principle of the original Saxon mode of trial was 
tbe tiial by jury in dispute , in some form or other, to what was held 

the submission of t T p cre was n o interference of the human jndg- 

to be the arbitration _ ’ , - t p p we ighing and comparing the adverse 

probabiittLf'the questiTwas not held to be a question of probabilities at all ;it 
P “Lved L bS capable of a solution as certain as any question m arithmetic. 






248 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY - . 


[G. L. CRAIK. 

The decision was left not to the fallible judgment of man, but, as was believed, to 
the infallible judgment of the Deity. As long as this belief subsisted universally, 
it is evident, as we have already observed, that no mode of trial proceeding upon a 
different principle could well come into use. Men would not readily relinquish a 
method which afforded them in all cases a certain determination of the matter, for 
one which afforded them only a doubtful determination of it. They would not 
easily be disposed to remain satisfied with a decision which might be wrong, while 
they believed that they had it in their power to obtain one that could not but be 
right. That belief, however, was so entirely founded in ignorance and superstition, 
that it of necessity decayed in the light of increasing knowledge and civilization ; 
even the results of the trials at law that were founded on it would themselves be 
constantly raising suspicions of its fallacy. Nevertheless, there is reason to sup¬ 
pose that it was not any general conviction of the absurdity of the ordeal, or of the 
vanity of the imagination on which the use of it rested, that led first to its dis¬ 
couragement, and eventually to its entire abandonment. If such a conviction had 
been arrived at, the practice would have been given up at once, as one wholly irra¬ 
tional and iniquitous. But this was not the course taken. In the first instance, 
the legislature only interfered to narrow the application of the ordeal, and the * 
church to discountenance the frequent or indiscriminate resort to it. It is evident 
that the popular prejudice in its favour could not yet be attacked in front. Its 
folly was discerned by the ruling and more enlightened part of the community ; 
and the government and the church, even if either or both may be supposed to 
have had an interest in keeping it up as a convenient instrument of control, must 
have perceived that it was one which could not be much longer left in their hands; 
but they did not, for all that, announce that the supposed judgment of Heaven 
was really nothing of the kind. If they had, they would have offended what was 
yet the general sentiment, and their announcement would probably have been re¬ 
ceived with incredulity and scorn. Besides, there would be a natural reluctance on 
the part of those by whom the ordeal had been hitherto sanctioned and upheld to 
make a frank acknowledgement that it was all a solemn mockery. They therefore 
took another course. The clergy began to preach against the ordeal, not as being 
absurd, but as being impious ; they did not deny its efficiency, as an appeal to 
Heaven, but they endeavoured to show that it was an appeal which, in ordinary 
circumstances, at least, it was sinful in human beings to make. They may possibly 
also have sometimes insinuated that one of the consequences of its abuse would be 
its frequent failure ;—that the Deity would not consent to favour with a true de¬ 
cision of their cause the parties who thus improperly called upon him. Be this as 
it may, it was only after a long course of partial opposition to the ordeal that the 
church ventured finally and distinctly to prohibit its use. It did do this at last, 
however, by the eighteenth canon of the Fourth Council of Lateran, published in 
November, 1215. 

Meanwhile, the ordeal had been gradually falling more and more into disuse 
under the operation of various causes. The discouragement of it by the church 
and the diffusion of the feeling upon which that discouragement was professedly 
grounded, would, no doubt, have a powerful effect in indisposing the public mind 
towards such a mode of trial except in very extraordinary circumstances. Then 
the conviction of its inherent absurdity, and utter unsuitableness in any circum¬ 
stances, was of course growing and extending itself. Besides, it was not necessary 
in order to be opposed altogether to the ordeal as a mode of trying causes that a 
person should be a disbeliever in the assumed principle of that kind of trial. That 
principle was, that the Deity, if fairly appealed to, would work a miracle in vindi¬ 
cation of the innocent party—would prevent the boiling water from scalding him, 














G. L. CRAIK.] 


ADMINISTRATION OF THE LAWS. 


249 


or the red-hot iron from burning him. This might be granted ; and still the ordeal 
might be objected to on the ground that there was, and could be, no security for 
tAcin. in any case a fair submission of the matter to the arbitration of Heaven. 

It might be alleged that, from the way in which the matter was managed the re¬ 
sult was wholly in the hands of the functionaries who superintended the p oce . 
The historian Eadmer relates, as an instance of the daring impiety o 1 liar “ 
Erfus that upon one occasion; when about fifty Englishmen of good quality and 
fortune, whom he had caused to be tried for killing his eer, ^ e “ ca ^ d 
iron, had all come off unburnt, and were consequently acquitted retended 

dared he would have them tried again by another mode, “dnotby tin.s prat*inded 
indvment of God which was made favourable or unfavourable at any man s plea 
sure 10 Yet Rufus Cre did not dispute the efficacy of the ordeal if it had been fairly 
managed^; “ot deny that heaven, if appealed 

decision, and would even, if necessary, work a miracle for that purpose “ ° s y 
denied that the professed appeal to Heaven was really man, 

the iulrment of Heaven, was mainly brought about by the natural development 
of the Sle of that m«le of trial itself. And this is the furiousT" 
the inauiry and that which is most deserving of attention. The manner m wnic 
what we should now call evidence originally obtained admission m trials at law 

belief m t e mnoce their testimony, properly speaking, was not 

weighed by any act o the I = , ^ and Talued> each man according 

estimated at all, but they ' \ ^ ^ ^ he wa5 rated acc0 rding to his rank ... 

to his , no t the hearing of evidence in any sense; it v as 

society, inis, tnereioie, -p- wbtVh it was supposed would no more 

merely another mode of appealing ° > t(Jgt of oatliS than it would fail 

suffer the guilty party to come o ' 1 Nevertheless, this mode of 

to vindicate the innocent in the ordeal of fireor f Water «« > rf ^ t0 a 

compurgation as it was “ersonp’ledgtag^h/faith in favour of the one side or the 
further innovation, uhe peison 1 a ° f hearing on the cues- 

othe , With an evident or understood than the 

tion at issue, would inevitably ma-e as o presented himself to make a 

person manifestly destitute of suchknowddge who ^ ^ ard 

similar or an opposite deposition . t ns ' pund between the two deponents, 

practice of the law made no distinction Sions who were not acquainted 

The bringing forward of persons to ma .e U disreputable, and gradually 

with the facts of the case, would, m this way, beco ^ h stiU on l y called 

fall into disuse, till at length the deponents o i > other, 

upon to make oath to their to the 

would be almost always understood t I aeneral confidence in his 

party whom their declarations were to benefit, oi fiom a gene 






250 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[G. L. CRAIJv. 

credibility, but from tlieir own knowledge of tlie disputed facts. In truth, a person 
ignorant of the facts would, it may fairly be presumed, scarcely dare now to pre¬ 
sent himself to make oath in opposition to one to whom the facts were well known. 
Here, then, we have the deponents on both sides already turned into witnesses even 
before the law yet demands their testimony. But, this point arrived at, it is im¬ 
possible that the next step should be long delayed. The witnesses, that is the 
persons having a knowledge of the facts, being thus brought before the court, would 
naturally be led by degrees to extend their depositions beyond a mere general de¬ 
claration in support of either party ; they would proceed to state the grounds of 
the belief which they made oath that they entertained ; in other words, they would 
state the facts which they knew in relation to the cause,—they would give their 
testimony as well as their depositions. Evidence having thus once obtained admis¬ 
sion, however irregularly, and with however little legal efficacy in the first instance, 
would speedily come to be received as of weight in the decision of the cause, and 
would then be demanded as indispensable. But this change would render necessary 
other important changes. 

So long as causes were tried on the principle of submitting the matter in dis¬ 
pute, in some form or other, to the arbitration of Heaven, no functionaries that 
could properly be called judges were required in the courts of law. There might 
be a person to preside, and to declare or make publicly known the result of the 
process which had been gone through ; but no exercise of the judgment was de¬ 
manded either here or in any other part of the proceedings. The whole affair, as 
already observed, was of the nature of a chemical experiment, or an arithmetical 
calculation ; it was conducted according to certain fixed rules, or might be said to 
carry on itself; and the ascertainment of the result was merely a matter of obser¬ 
vation, and of observation of the easiest kind. Under this state of things, there¬ 
fore, all kinds of causes were tried at popular meetings,—at the wittenagemote, 
and the shiremote, and the other assemblies of the same kind ; and the judgment 
passed in each case might as truly be said to be that of the attending crowd as that 
of the members of the court. It was really the judgment neither of the one nor of 
the other, nor was it so considered ; it was called not the judgment of man at 
all, but the judgment of God. But as soon as the principle of the appeal to Heaven 
was departed from, by the admission of evidence, the whole system of the adminis¬ 
tration of the law necessarily assumed a new form. The exercise of judgment by 
the court now became indispensable. It is probable, however, that in the gradual 
progress of the change, this consequence was not for some time very clearly per¬ 
ceived, and that it came upon the country and the government before the requi¬ 
site preparations were made for it. Hence, as occasions arose, expedients of various 
kinds would be at first resorted to with the view of making the old machinery still 
answer. It would soon be found, for instance, that the hearing of evidence, unlike 
the ordeal and the trial by compurgation, produced differences of opinion among 
the persons present; and it would also become abundantly apparent that a large 
multitude of persons did not form the most convenient tribunal for weighing and 
coming to a decision upon the statements of conflicting witnesses. In these cir¬ 
cumstances we might, on the first view of the matter, suppose the most natural 
course would be to appoint a small committee of the court to examine the witnesses 
and come to a judgment upon the cause. But this is to assume that the proper 
distinction between the provinces of the court and of the witnesses was already 
much more distinctly percei ved than it could as yet be, when things were only be¬ 
ginning to emerge out of that state in which the court had really never taken any 
part in the trial of the cause at all. The witnesses, or the persons who came to 
give evidence, and not the court, would at this time in fact be most naturally looked 





G. L. CRAIK.] 


ADMINISTRATION OF THE LAWS. 


251 


, , . . M \ pnmmittee of the witnesses, therefore, 

and perplexity, of conflicting evidence. Tlio, acquainted with the facts, 

to be the Arsons of greatest probity, or to bethose best acq themselve3 as 

would be chosen out from among the rest, a'eft to agr ee a g 

to how the truth stood,-in o her words, to p ^ 5 SoD» with more form and 
apart would probably he called upon to make t P ordinary witness 

po°plr b fkung Pe ht Always 0 attached a certain virtue or important to particular 

Tnthe above deduction we have in fact what appears^ be tteMrtogrf the 

origin in this country of trial by jury, in as a important they were 

scanty notices that remain to us of of being re¬ 
destined to be in their ultimate lesu s, weie . mem0 ry of which that has 

corded by any contemporary chronicler, and the only merncuy ot 
come down to us has been preserved more by accident than b y des.^ ^ ^ 
that, even in the Saxon times, it was occasionally the P™ct professed to 

Sion of a civil suit certain of the mos in their nomi- 

be acquainted with the facts in ispu , 1 „ r verdict In the Norman times 

nation, and consenting to .M. by their^decision or verdict. ^ sub . 

this became a more usual mode of t y g ’ established than that the on- 

jected to more strict re^rlatiom in the case, and that 

ginal jury, or body of sworn tue *> fr y m their owu knowledge of the facts, 

their verdict was their deliverance ip occasionallv and sparingly re- 

At first this mode of trial appears o ave . y Conqueror, one in a suit 

sorted to. Two instances are recorded in 'the V ol te ^ 4 4 , other in a 

between the crown and Gundulphus, is P of E j in 10 go. In the sub¬ 
suit respecting certain lands claime 0 gi F p a ]g r ave is of opinion that 

sequent reigns the instances are n enacted ^ the Con- 

in criminal cases the jury was un a professed to restore the laws of the 

queror. William, in a charter by which he professed to^ ^ a charge 

Confessor, with certain additions c ’ Norman aga i ns t an Englishman, 

made by an Englishman against a N .°““ mg L determined by a tribunal of sworn 
the guilt or innocence of the accuse „ The first regulation, however 

witnesses, “ according to the la trial appe ars to have been one of 

which established the jury as a gene , , , Henry II. at Clarendon, 

the laws, or “assizes,” as they were called > “ ac ‘ ed 7 F “Xrave “ the justices, 
about 1176. By this law, to quote the account of SirF. Falgmi ^ J ^ 

who represented the kings person, wer together with the four men from each 

knights, or other lawful men of each hundred, together with ^ ^ guch 

township, of all murders, robberies, anc > „ A other enactment of the same 

offenders since the king’s accession to the thic^ne. Anothere^ . Q certaili 

assizes abolished the trial by compurgatto ^ ^ ^ The 

^ -: u .* - ...««• - - 






HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


252 


[G. L. CRAIK. 


cognition” by tlie twelve lawful men as the regular mode of trial in various kinds 
of civil suits. 

If the trial by battle was at all known in Saxon times, the earliest record of it in 
England is subsequent to the Conquest. The duel (orerneste, as its Saxon name 
appears to have been) would seem to be a still ruder mode of trial than any of 
those methods that were more peculiarly called the ordeal, as allowing, which they 
did not, mere physical force to be the main arbitrator of the dispute, and being 
therefore almost identical in principle with the mode of deciding quarrels which is 
proper to a state of nature. It is, probably, indeed, of greater antiquity than the 
ordeal; yet it was neither supplanted by the ordeal, nor when that mode of trial 
was abolished did the duel even share its fate. It continued in common use for 
ages afterwards. The duel was undoubtedly looked upon as being, not less than 
the ordeal, an appeal to the judgment of God, and it was in virtue of this character 
that it retained its place as one of the allowed modes of trial in association with the 
ordeal. If it had been deemed to be a mere contest of physical strength, it is dif¬ 
ficult to conceive that it ever should have been adopted as a mode of legal trial at 
all, and it certainly could not have kept its ground as such after the more refined 
principle of the ordeal came to be recognised. The belief was that Heaven would 
by no means allow the issue of the appeal to depend upon the thews and sinews 
of the two combatants, but would defend the right, if necessary by enabling the 
weaker man to overcome the stronger,—that is to say, by working a miracle, just as 
in the case of the ordeal. The duel and the ordeal therefore stood in the popular 
imagination upon the same principle. Why, then, when the ordeal was prohibited, 
was not the duel abolished along with it ? To be enabled to answer this question 
we must recollect that the prohibition of the ordeal was by no means distinctly 
placed by the church upon the ground of the inherent absurdity of such a mode of 
trial,—of the fallacy of the notion that the special interference of Heaven was to 
be so secured. The practice was discouraged, and at last formally condemned as 
unlawful, on other grounds altogether, as has been shown above. It was denounced 
as impious rather than as fallacious or absurd. If it was admitted to be in any 
sense fallacious, it was merely in so far as the supposed appeal to Heaven might by 
dishonest management be rendered only apparent instead of real. The generally 
received opinion that the direct judgment of God in a cause might be obtained by 
being properly sought for was left unassailed. All that was affirmed was, that the 
ordeal of fire or of water, was not a proper mode of seeking for such judgment. 
The condemnation of these modes, therefore, did not necessarily touch the trial by 
combat. It lay under none of the objections on account of which they were con¬ 
demned. It did not easily admit of collusion or any other species of unfair manage¬ 
ment. It was from its nature not likely to be resorted to upon trivial occasions, 
or to be taken advantage of in any circumstances as a mere form, but was always 
of necessity a solemn encounter, in which neither party could engage without peril 
of his life. Add to all this the accordance of the trial by combat with the martial 
spirit of the times, when prowess in arms was looked upon as almost the chief of 
human virtues ; and we shall be at no loss to understand the favour, or at least 
the toleration, which was shown to this mode of trial when the not more barbarous 
or more unjust custom of the ordeal was banished from the judicial practice of 
Christendom. Yet even within the period now under consideration an important 
step was taken towards the extinction of the appeal of battle in civil suits by a law 
of Henry II., which gave to both the tenant and defendant in a writ of right the 
alternative of having the case tried by what was called the grand assize, which was 
in fact merely a jury composed of four knights returned by the sheriff, and of 
twelve other persons named by them. The introduction of the grand assize is as- 










fi. L. CRAIK.] 


ADMINISTRATION OF THE LAWS. 


•T'bed to the advice of Glanville, who has in his book given a very particular de¬ 
scription of it, and expatiated upon its great importance as an improvement of 

the it a iTobvious that the entirely new form and character assumed by judicial pro¬ 
ceed;.^ after the commencement of the practice of trying and deciding causes by 

:: deuce’, would render the “^ed^^ 

were therefor, of Ser e, tieres ; but it rrea not generally 

innovation was patt.J The eral character of the Norman domina- 

established *■ 1 a^r the conq t g and to derive its being from the 

rr wt especially lavourableto the completion of the new system. It appears 
ciown, was especially f H r that justices itinerant, or 

to have been as appointed to go on circuits through 

L^fmadli regular part It K^toe of" 
second year of the reign of Henry II. 


72 ._DEATH OF HENRY II. Thierry. 

TTn 1183 another outbreak of the fierce and turbulent spirit of the princes led 
[In 1183 anot e f am ;i v wars This time Richard took up arms 

the way to a new ^“ess lon of f ^ ^ upoa him to do homage to 

against Henry and Geo y, between the brothers, effected by their 

Henry for Aquitaine. A reconcilement be ween the^^, ^ ok , J ng and 

father’s interference, only suspended t ot h e r two. After 

his son Kichard were then about half a dozen times, 

deserting his father and his youngest> nth June> n63 , 

Prince Henry was suddenly taken stm held out , supported by the 

in the twenty-se\ ent 5 ‘ ° „ strong feeling of the people against 

chief nobility of Aquitaine, w ieie hereditary chieftainess Eleanor; but he too 

the English king for his treatment of “‘“^4 father’s pardon. A solemn 

in a short time made his su jim^sion ^ eyen Eleanor was released from her 

family reconciliation then too - p > > r or more than a few months; 

prison and allowed to be present, f not last m ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

Geoffrey then, m consequence o1 his fathe* r« - n was now king> and pre - 
dom of Anjou, fled to t io com j carrv his design into execution he was 

!«* - » severely injured 

zixzi " • ivy •>“ »jrsz sssjz I'riitr 

brother Richard hastened to 10 - n Aquitainej he was compelled to throw 

cessfully attempting to exc : t of a new crusade, at the call of pope 

himself upon his father’s clemency A project ot a kenry and Philip ; 

Clement III., in the beginning of 1188 for a : men ^ ^ ' feeling whic h 

the impetuous Richard actual y j, captu re of Jerusalem by Saladin 

fl^^B^oal^^orttenewo^ ^ ^ ^ fte unhappy 

in the preceding September , alliance with the French king, 

father saw his son again bearing arms wa s Henry® 

Alice, the sist. ot 'the r, md^anced 

yf: hid in lifs possessionl^RichaiTpretended to believe that his father wished 









£54 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[THIERRY. 


to marry the princess himself, and even asserted or insinuated that her honour had 
already fallen a sacrifice to Henry’s passion ; it appears to be certain however that 
her restitution was only made a demand of the two confederates for popular effect, 
and was a very small part of their real object. Richard, having first done homage 
to Philip for all his father’s continental possessions, immediately proceeded to 
wrest them from the old man by the sword. Henry’s spirit seems now to have 
given way at last, and the resistance he offered to his son was feeble and ineffective.] 


Without means of defence, and without authority, enfeebled in mind and body, he 
determined to solicit peace, offering to submit to any conditions which might be 
imposed. The conference of the two kings, (for it appears that Richard took no 
part in it, but awaited at a distance the issue of the negociations), was held in a 
plain between Tours and Azay-sur-Cher. Philip’s demands were, that the king of 
England should expressly acknowledge himself his liege-man, and place himself at 
his mercy. That Alice should be given into the charge of five persons whom Richard 
should choose to guard her until his return from the crusade, to which he was to 
go with the king of France at mid-lent; that the king of England should renounce 
all right of sovereignty over the towns of Berry, which formerly belonged to the 
Dukes of Aquitaine, and that he should pay to the king of France twenty thousand 
marks of silver for the restitution of the conquered provinces ; that all those who 
had joined the son’s party should remain vassals of the son and not of the father, unless 
they should choose of their own free will to return to the latter : finally, that the 
king should receive his son Richard into his grace by the kiss of peace, and abjure 
sincerely and from the bottom of his heart all rancour and animosity against him. 

The old king had neither the means nor the hope of obtaining more favourable 
conditions ; he therefore armed himself with patience as well as he was able, and 
conversed with king Philip, listening to his words with an air of docility, like one 
who receives law from another. They were both on horseback in the open field ; 
and whilst they were conversing mouth to mouth, says a contemporary, it suddenly 
thundered, although the sky was cloudless, and the lightning fell between them, 
without doing them any harm. They separated immediately, both extremely 
alarmed ; after a short interval, they again approached each other ; but a second 
peal of thunder, louder than the first, was heard almost at the same instant. The 
king of England, whom the sad necessity to which he was reduced, his grief, and 
the weak state of his health rendered more susceptible of alarm, probably fancying 
some connection between this accident of nature and his own fate, was so agitated 
by it, that he let go his horse’s reins, and tottered so in his saddle, that he would 
have fallen to the ground had he not been supported by those around him. The 
conference was broken up ; and as Henry II. continued too ill to be present at a 
second interview, the conditions of peace, drawn up in writing, were carried to his 
quarters, that he might formally ratify them. 

He was lying on a bed when he received the men sent to him by the Kino- of 
France, and they read him the treaty of peace, article by article. When they came, 
to that which mentioned persons engaged secretly or openly on Richard’s side, the 
king asked their names, that he might know how many there were whose homage 
he was forced to renounce. The first they named to him was John, his youngest 
son ; on hearing this name, seized by an almost convulsive movement, he raised 
himself on his seat, and throwing around him a piercing and woe-struck glance 
said, “ Can it be true, that John my heart’s darling, my favourite son, him whom I 
have loved above all the others, and for whose sake I have brought upon myself 
all these miseries, has also deserted me?” They replied that thus it was; that 
nothing could be more true. “ Well,” said he, falling back on his bed, and turning 


















THIERRY.] 


DEATH OF HENRY II. 


255 


his face to the wall, “ henceforward let things take their own course, I have no 
more care for myself or for the world.” Seme moments after, Richard approached 
the bed, and asked his father for the kiss of peace, in execution of the treaty. The 
king gave it him with an air of apparent calmness ; but as Richard was going away, 
he heard his father murmur in alow voice : “ If God would only grant that I might 
not die before avenging myself on thee ! ” On his arrival at the French camp, the 
count of Poictiers repeated these words to Philip and his courtiers, who raised 
shouts of laughter, and made many jokes on the good peace that had just been 
concluded between the father and son. 

The King of England, finding his illness increase, had himself conveyed to 
Chinon, where, in a few days, he fell into a state bordering on death. In his last 
moments he was heard to utter broken exclamations in allusion to his misfortunes, 
and the conduct of his sons. “ Shame,” he cried, “ shame on a vanquished king 
Cursed be the day I was born, and cursed of God be the sons I leave behind me.” 
The bishops and churchmen who surrounded him, used all their efforts to make 
him retract this malediction against his childien \ but he peisisted in it till his 
latest breath. 

After his death, his corpse was treated by his servants, in the same manner as 
that of William the Conqueror had been ; they all abandoned it, after having 
stripped it of its clothing, and carried off everything of value in the room and in 
the house. King Henry had wished to be interred at Fontevrault, a celebrated 
nunnery, some leagues south of Chinon ; it was with difficulty that men were found 
to wrap the body in a shroud, and a carriage and horses to remove it. The corpse 
was already deposited in the great church of the abbey, awaiting the day of burial, 
when count Richard was apprised by public rumour of his father s death ; he went 
to the church, and found the king lying in a coffin, with his face uncovered, and 
still showing by the contraction of the features, traces of violent agony. This sight 
caused the "count of Poictiers an involuntary shuddering. He knelt down, and 
prayed before the altar, but rose in a few moments, after the interval of a pater¬ 
noster say the historians of that time, and went out, not to return. Contempora¬ 
ries declare that from the moment Richard entered the church, till he left it, 
streams of blood flowed incessantly from both nostrils of the deceased. The next 
day the ceremony of sepulture took place ; it was wished to decorate the corpse 
with some of the emblems of royalty ; but the keepers of the treasury at Chinon 
refused and after much entreaty, sent only an old sceptre, and a ring of little 
value ? For want of a-crown a sort of diadem formed of the gold embroidery of a 
woman’s garment was placed on the king’s head, and in this strange tawdry attire. 
Henry son of Geoffrey Plantagenet, King of England, duke of Normandy, Aquitaine, 
and Brittany, count of Anjou and Maine, lord of Tours and Amboise, descended to 


his last abode. . 

A contemporary writer thinks he sees in the misfortunes of Henry II. a sign of 

the Divine vengeance upon the Normans, the tyrants of Conquered England. He 
compares this miserable death to those of William the Conqueror, of Henry II.’s 
brothers and of his two eldest sons, who all perished by a \iolcnt death in the 
flower of their a<m. “ This,” he says, “ was the punishment of their illegitimate 
rcien ” B u t without agreeing with this superstitious opinion, it is at any rate 
certain, as far as concerns Henry II., that his miseries were the direct consequence 
of that fortune which had united the southern provinces 01 Gaul under his dominion. 
He had rejoiced over this increase of power as an increase of good foitune ; he had 
o-iven his sons the countries of others as their appanages, glorying to see his family 
reiem over several nations of different race and manners, and to unite under the 
same political yoke those whom nature had divided. But nature did not lose her 





256 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY. 

rights, and, on the first movement made by the people to recover their independence, 
division entered the family of the foreign king, who saw his children made instru¬ 
ments in the hands of his own subjects to be employed against himself, and who, 
troubled to his latest hour by domestic war, experienced, in dying, the most bitter 
sentiment that any man can carry to the tomb, that of dying by a parricide. 


“’•3.—CHARACTER OF HENRY II. 
From the “ Quarterly Review.” 


Peter of Blois. 


‘ You are aware that his complexion and hair were a little red, but the approach 
of old age has altered this somewhat, and the hair is turning grey. He is of 
middle size, such that among short men he seems tall, and even among tall ones 
not the least in stature. His head is spherical, as if it were the seat of great 
wisdom, and the special sanctuary of deep schemes. In size it is such as to corres¬ 
pond well with the neck and whole body. His eyes are round, and while he is 
calm, dove-like and quiet ; but when he is angry, they flash fire, and are like light¬ 
ning. His hair is not grown scant, but he keeps it well cut. His face is lion-like, 
and almost square. His nose projects in a degree proportionate to the symmetry 
of his whole body. His feet are arched ; his shins like a horse’s ; his broad chest 
and brawny arms proclaim him to be strong, active, and bold. In one of his toes, 
however, part of the nail grows into the flesh, and increases enormously, to the in¬ 
jury of the whole foot. His hands by their coarseness show the man’s careless¬ 
ness ; he wholly neglects all attention to them, and never puts a glove on, except 
he is hawking. He every day attends mass, councils, and other public business, 
and stands on his feet from morning till night. Though his shins are terribly 
wounded and discoloured by constant kicks from horses, he never sits down except 
on horseback, or when he is eating. In one day, if need requires, he will perform 
four or five regular days’ journeys, and by these rapid and unexpected movements 
often defeats his enemies’ plans. He uses straight boots, a plain hat, and a tight 
dress. He is very fond of field-sports, and if he is not fighting, amuses himself 
with hawking and hunting. He would have grown enormously fat, if he did not 
tame this tendency to belly by fasting and exercise. In mounting a horse and 
riding he preserves all the lightness of youth, and tires out-the strongest men by 
his excursions almost every day. For he does not, like other kings, lie idle in his 
palace, but goes through his provinces examining into every one’s conduct, and par¬ 
ticularly that of the persons whom he has appointed judges of others. Ho one is 
shrewder in council, readier in speaking, more self-possessed in danger, more care¬ 
ful in prosperity, more firm in adversity. If he once forms an attachment to a 
man he seldom gives him up ; if he has once taken a real aversion to a person, he 
seldom admits him afterwards to any familiarity. He has for ever in his hands 
bows, swords, hunting-nets, and arrows, except he is at council or at his books ; 
for as often as he can get breathing time from his cares and anxieties he occupies 
himself with private reading, or, surrounded by a knot of clergymen, he endeavours 
to solve some hard question. Your king knows literature well, but ours is much 
more deeply versed in it. I have had opportunities of measuring the attainments 
of each in literature ; for you know that the king of Sicily was my pupil for two 
years. He had learnt the rudiments of literature and versification, and by my in¬ 
dustry and anxiety reached afterwards to fuller knowledge. As soon, however, as 
I left Sicily, he threw away his books, and gave himself up to the usual idleness of 














PETER OF BLOTS.] 


CHARACTER OF HEISIRY II. 


2A? 


palaces But in the case of the king of England, the constant conversation of 
learned men, and the discussion of questions, makes his court a daily school. No 
one can be more dignified in speaking, more cautious at table, more moderate in 
drinking, more splendid in gifts, more generous in alms. He is pacific m heart, 
victorious in war, but glorious in peace, which he desires for his people as the most 
precious of earthly gifts. It is with a view to this that he receives, collects, and 
dispenses such an immensity of money. He is equally skilful and liberal m erect¬ 
ing walls, towers, fortifications, moats, and places of enclosure for fish and buds. 
H°s father was a very powerful and noble count, and did much to extend his terri¬ 
tory but he has gone far beyond his father, and has added the dukedoms of Nor¬ 
mandy, of Aquitaine, and Brittany, the kingdoms of England, Scotland [?] Ireland, 
and Wales, so as to increase, beyond all comparison, the titles of his father s splen¬ 
dour. No one is more gentle to the distressed, more affable to the poor,, moie 
overbearing to the proud. It has always, indeed, been his study, by a certain car¬ 
riage of himself like a deity, to put down the insolent, to encourage the oppressed, 
a n| to repress the swellings of pride by continual and deadly persecution Al¬ 
though. by the customs of the kingdom, he has the chief and most influential part 
in elections [of bishops?], his hands have always been pure from anything like 
venality But these and other excellent gifts of mind and body with which nature 
has enriched him, I can but briefly touch. I profess my own incompetence to 
describe them and believe that Cicero or Virgil would labour in vam. 


* 


In a letter to a certain archdeacon or dean (Roger) who had business with the 
kinv Peter of Blois mentions that he had lately occasion to go to ns n.ajes y 
matters respecting the church of Canterbury, and that he entered the presence with 

cheerfulness, in his usual way ; but, says he, , . T • 

< Heading and understanding in his face the disturbance of his spirit, I imme¬ 
diately suppressed what I was about to say, and held my tongue, for I was afiai 
that if I spoke I should give further occasion to the irritation which ins face the 
faithful index of his mfnd, betrayed. I deferred my business, therefore till a 
luckier hour and serener countenance should favour my wishes, lo speak to an 
auvry prince on business seems to me throwing out your fishing nets in a storm 
He who does so and will not wait till the gale is over, destroys himself and h s 
nets I know you are sent with a very harsh message to the knig, and you must, 
therefore be the more careful. Things which are in themselves pleasant, very often 
rive offence if related without consideration ; while an unpleasant message may be 
fo managed I to give pleasure. Pray take care not to approach the king about 

into*th^presence " Z hetflaml 7^ i/good humour, but he is a lion, or worse 
Than a 1 . 011 , when seriously angry. It is no joke to incur the indignation of one ir 
whose hands are honour and disgrace. 

* * * * * * 

te the^rt has bread put We him 

Sr StLf ^oilteit^ tW 

c y pr b « to fiiter s than drink * 







HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORI. 


258 


[peter of blots. 


with their eyes shut and their teeth closed, with loathing and reaching. The beer 
at court is horrid to taste and filthy to look at. On account of the great demand, 
meat, whether sweet or not, is sold alike ; the fish is four days old; yet its stink¬ 
ing does not lessen its price. The servants care nothing whatever whether the 
unlucky guests are sick or dead, provided there are fuller dishes sent up to their 
master’s tables. Indeed, the tables are filled (sometimes) with carrion, and the 
guests’ stomachs thus become the tombs for those who die in the course of nature. 
Indeed, many more deaths would ensue from this putrid food were it not that the 
famishing greediness of the stomach, (which, like a whirlpool, will suck in any 
thing,) by the help of powerful exercise, gets rid of everything. But if the cour¬ 
tiers cannot have exercise (which is the case if the court stays for a time in a town), 
some of them always stay behind at the point of death. 

To say nothing of other matters, I cannot endure the annoyances of the Mar¬ 
shals. They are most wily flatterers, infamous slanderers, shameful swindlers, 
most importunate till they get something from you, and most ungrateful when they 
have ; nay, open enemies, unless your hand is continually in your pocket. I have 
seen very many who have been most generous to them ; and yet, when, after the 
fatigue of a long journey, these persons had got a lodging, when their meat was 
half dressed, or when they were actually at table, nay, sometimes, when they were 
asleep on their rugs, the marshals would come in with insolence and abuse, cut 
their horses’ halters, tumble their baggage out of doors, without any distinction, 
and (with great loss to the owners) turn them out of their lodgings shamefully ; 
and thus, when they had lost everything which they had brought for their comfort, 
at night they could not, though rich, find a place to hide their heads in. 

‘This, too, must be added to the miseries of court. If the king announces his 
intention of moving three days hence, and particularly if the royal pleasure has 
been announced by the heralds, you may be quite sure that the king will start by 
daybreak, and put every body’s plans to the rout by his unexpected dispatch. Thus 
it frequently happens that persons who have been let blood, or have taken physic, 
follow the king without regard to themselves, place their existence at the hazard of 
a die, and, for fear of losing what they neither do nor ever will possess, are not 
afraid of losing their own lives. You may see men running about like madmen, 
sumpter-horses pressing on sumpter-horses, and carriages jostling against carriages; 
all, in short, in utter confusion. So that, from the thorough disturbance and 
misery, one might get a good description of the look of hell. But if his majesty 
has given notice beforehand that he will move to such a place very early the next 
day, his plan will certainly be changed, and you may therefore be sure that he 
will sleep till mid-day. You will see the sumpter-horses waiting with their bur¬ 
dens on, the carriages all quiet, the pioneers asleep, the court purveyors in a worry, 
and all muttering to one another; then they run to the prostitutes and the court 
shopkeepers to inquire of them whether the prince will go, for this class of court 
followers very often know the secrets of the palace. The king’s court, indeed, is 
regularly followed by stage-players, washerwomen, dice-players, confectioners, 
tavern-keepers, buffoons, barbers, pick-pockets—in short, the whole race of this 
kind. I have often known that, when the king was asleep, and every thing in deep 
silence, a message came from the royal quarters, (not omnipotent, perhaps, but 
still awaking all,) and told us the city or town to which we were to go. After we 
had been worn out with expectation, it was some comfort at all events that we were 
to be fixed where we might hope to find plenty of lodgings and provisions. There 
was then such a hurried and confused rush of horse and foot immediately, that 
you would think all hell had broken loose. However, when the pioneers had quite 
or Dearly finished their day’s journey, the king would change his mind, and go to 







PETER OF BLOIS.] 


CHARACTER OF HENRY IT. 


259 


some other place, where, perhaps, he had the only house, and a plenty of provisions, 
none of which were given to any one else. And, if I dare say so, I rca y tnnk 
that his pleasure was increased by our annoyance. We had to travel three or four 
miles through unknown woods, and often in the dark, and thought ourselves too 
happy if at length we could find a dirty and miserable hut There was often a 
violent quarrel among the courtiers about the cottages, and they would fight with 
swords about a place for which pigs would have been ashamed to quarrel. ow 
things were with me and my attendants on such nights you will have no doubt 
My people and I were separated, and it would be three days befoie I could collect 

th ‘ Olutod, who art King of kings, and Lord of lords, to be feared by earthly 
kings in whose hands the hearts of kings are, and who turnest them as thou wilt, 
turn the heart of this king from these pestilent customs ! Make him know that 
he is a man and let him have and practise the grace of royal bounty and kindness 
to those who are compelled to follow him, not from ambition but necessity . Free 
me I beseech thee, from the necessity of returning to the odious and troublesome 
“urt which lies in the shadow of death, and where order and peace are unknown ! 
-int to return to the court officers. By exceeding complaisance you may some¬ 
times keep in favour with the outer porters for two days, but this will not last to 
aThTrd unless you buy it with continued gifts and flattery. They will tell the most 
unblushing falsehoods, and say that the king is ill, or asleep, or at council. And 
if vou are an honest and religious man, but have given them nothing the day before, 
fhev wfll keep you an unreasonable time standing in the rain and mire ; and to 
annoy you the more, and move your bile, they will allow a set of hairdressers and 

thieves to go in at the first word ! As to the doorkeepers of the presence, ay 
thieves t g , F th e not afraid to put every good man to 

the blush, and co^ ei ^ bfibed the door keeper ! “ Si nihil 

without? ft is o c Afte ^ the first Cerberus, there is another worse 

tiian 'Cerberus Tore terrible than Briareus, more wicked than Pygmalion, and 
than Cerberus no in the greatest danger of losing your 

more cruel than the y ^ ^ ^ ;t often happens , to make 

life, or your fortune, t g u r umpantur ut ilia Codro,” that while you are 

things ten thousand fames wo , I , Lord Jesu8 Christ, if this is the 

kept o;^ese w retehes let youyn^ y^ ^ T ^ g0 back t0 it again , I 

Tannot attempt to reckon the grievous loss of time which I have already sustained 
in years of trifling about the court. 


74. 


—CHARACTER OE THE NORMAN GOVERNMENT. 


Hallam. 


Unrestrained, comparatively speaking, by ^ristocratic principles which m- 
fluenced other feudal countries, the administrate q gometimes perhap8 a 
arbitrariness under William the Conqueror w ^ ^ p ° lp For t p e first three 
little mitigated, did not cease during a y though vague, and 

reigns we must have recourse to the tyran- 

perhaps exaggerated, is too uniform a P exactions of tribute, the rapine 

nical character of the government Qe ". « > ^ moutbs . « G od 

of purveyance, the iniquity of royal courts.are unjustly oppressed, 

sees the wretched people, says the & butchered. This was a grievous 

first they are despoiled of their possessions, then butchered. 









2G0 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


f HALLAM. 


year (1124). "Whoever had any property lost it by heavy taxes and unjust decrees.” 
The same ancient Chronicle, which appears to have been continued from time to 
time in the abbey of Peterborough, frequently utters similar notes of lamentation. 

From the reign of Stephen, the miseries of which are not to my immediate 
purpose, so far as they proceeded from anarchy and intestine war. we are able to 
trace the character of government by existing records. These, digested by the in¬ 
dustrious Madox into his History of the Exchequer, give us far more insight into 
the spirit of the constitution, if we may use such a word, than all our monkish 
chroniclers. It was not a sanguinary despotism. Henry II. was a prince of re¬ 
markable clemency ; and none of the Conqueror’s successors were as grossly tyran¬ 
nical as himself. But the system of rapacious extortion from their subjects pre¬ 
vailed to a degree which we should rather exjject to find among eastern slaves, than 
that high-spirited race of Normandy, whose renown then filled Europe and Asia. 
The right of wardship was abused by selling the heir and his land to the highest 
bidder. That of marriage was carried to a still grosser excess. The kings of 
France indeed claimed the prerogative of forbidding the marriage of their vassals’ 
daughters to such persons as they thought unfriendly or dangerous to themselves ; 
but I am not aware that they ever compelled them to marry, much less that they 
turned this attribute of sovereignty into a means of revenue. But in England, 
women, and even men, simply as tenants in chief, and not as wards, fined to the 
crown for leave to marry whom they would, or not to be compelled to marry any 
other. Towns not only fined for original grants of franchises, but for repeated con¬ 
firmations. The Jews paid exorbitant sums for every common right of mankind, 
for protection, for justice. In return, they were sustained against their Christian 
debtors in demands of usu^y, which superstition and tyranny rendered enormous. 
Men fined for the king’s good-will; or that he would remit his anger ; or to have 
his mediation with their adversaries. Many fines seem as it were imposed in sj)ort, 
if we look to the cause ; though their extent, and the solemnity with which they 
were recorded, prove the humour to have been differently relished by the two 
parties. Thus the bishop of Winchester paid a tun of good wine for not reminding 
the king (John) to give a girdle to the Countess of Albemarle ; and Robert do 
Faux five best palfreys, that the same king might hold his peace about Henry 
Pinel’s wife. Another paid four marks for leave to eat (pro licentia comedendi). 
But of all the abuses which deformed the Anglo-Norman government, none was so 
flagitious as the sale of judicial redress. The king, we are often told, is the foun¬ 
tain of justice ; but in those ages it was one which gold alone could unseal. Men 
fined to have right done them ; to sue in a certain court; to implead a certain 
person ; to have restitution of land which they had recovered at law. From the 
sale of that justice which every citizen has a right to demand, it was an easy tran¬ 
sition to withhold, deny it. Fines were received for the king’s help against the 
adverse suitor; that is, for perversion of justice, or for delay. Sometimes they 
were paid by opposite parties, and, of course, for opposite ends. These were called 
counter-fines ; but the money was, sometimes, or as Lord Lyttleton thinks, in¬ 
variably returned to the unsuccessful suitor. 

Among a people imperfectly civilized, the most outrageous injustice towards in¬ 
dividuals may pass without the slightest notice, while in matters affecting the 
community, the powers of government are exceedingly controlled. It becomes 
therefore an important question, what prerogative these Norman kings were used to 
exercise in raising money, and in general legislation. By the prevailing feudal customs, 
the lord was entitled to demand a pecuniary aid of his vassals in certain cases. 
r l hese were, in England, to make his eldest son a knight, to marry his eldest 
daughter and to ransom himself from captivity. Accordingly, when such circum- 









HALLAM.] 


CHARACTER OF THE NORMAN GOVERNMENT. 


261 


stances occurred, aids were levied by the crown upon its tenants, at the rate o 
mark or a pound for every knight’s fee. These aids, being strictly due, .m the 
prescribed cases, were taken without requiring the consent of parliament. Escuag , 
which was a commutation for the personal service of military tenants in wa 
having rather the appearance of an indulgence than an imposi ion, m 0 ' 

ably be levid by the king. It was not till the charter of John that escuage bee. 
a parliamentary assessment; the custom of commuting service having then grown 
general, and the rate of commutation being variable. , . w t 

None but military tenants could be liable for escuage ; but the J 

of the crown were oppressed by tallages. The demesne lands of tte ^ng and^ 
royal towns were liable to tallage ; an imposition ai moie rigorous upon 

than those which fell upon the gentry. Tallages were oont.nudly raised upon 
different towns during all the Norman reigns, without the consent of pmhament 
which neither represented them nor cared for their interests. The itinerant just 
in their circuits usually set this tan. Sometimes the tallage was assessed in gross 
upon a town, and collected by the burgesses ; sometimes individually at the ji g- 
ment of the justices. There was an appeal from an excessive ‘ 

barons of the Exchequer. Inferior lords might tallage _ their own tenanta 

demesne towns, though not, it seems, without the mg s P er “’- Sa ’ ' b 
upon the import and export of merchandise, of which the presage o™«, thatus, 
aright of taking two casks out of each vessel, seems the mos matena! weim 
memorially exacted by the crown. There is no appearance that thes 
with parliament Another tax, extending to all the lands of the km t , 
DanegeS he ship-money of thise times. This name had been onginaUy given to 
the tax imposed under Ethelred II, in order to raise a tnbute exacted by^ the 
Danes. It was afterwards applied to a permanent contribution for the public e 
fence against the same enemies. But after the conquest this tax is said to ha e 
been only occasionally required ; and the latest instance on record of its^ pay' t 

is in ^twentieth of Henry II. Its imposition appears to have been at the king 

dl Timright of general legislation was undoubtedly placed in the king,' 

with his great council, or, if the expression be thought more proper 

vice So little opposition was found in these assemblies by the ea ly Noima 

kim-s that they gratified their own love of pomp, as well as the pride of t e 

baron’s, by consulting them in every important Jmsiness.^ But ^ 

community required 1 ^auction of that assemb^ which was supposed to repre^ 
sent it; but there was no security for individuals against acts of prei ogatn e, w e 
_t._-.ij in«tl v consider as most tyrannical. Henry II, the oest of tl ese 
We p banished from England the relations and friends of Becket, to the num- 
rr^“rfd fr r another time, he sent over from Normandy an injunction 
that all the kindred of those who obeyed a papal interdict should be banished, and 

reigns do not exhibit to us many provisions^hekws 
maintain public liberty on abroad and gemera foundation. An d .altbo« ie 
then enacted have not all been preserved, yet it is unlikely that “ 

sively remedial nature should have left no trace of their en^ 
ever what has sometimes been called the Magna Charta of Will am the ^«ror, 
n -eserved in Boger de Iloveden’s collection of his laws. We will, enjoin and grant, 
says the king, that all freemen of our kingdom shall enjoy their lands in peace 
‘■roc from all tallage, and from every unjust exaction so' that nothing t■ t 
service lawfully due to us shall be demanded at their hands. The laws of the Con- 





262 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [HALLAM 

queror, found in Hoveden, are wholly different from those in Ingulfus, and are 
suspected not to have escaped considerable interpolation. It is remarkable, that 
no reference is made to this concession of William the Conqueror in any subse¬ 
quent charter. However it seems to comprehend only the feudal tenants of the 
crown. Nor does the charter of Henry I., though so much celebrated, contain any 
thing specially expressed but a remission of unreasonable reliefs, -wardships, and 
other feudal burdens. It proceeds however to declare that he gives his subjects 
the laws of Edward the Confessor, with the emendations made by his father with 
consent of his barons. The charter of Stephen not only confirms that of his pre¬ 
decessor, but adds, in fuller terms than Henry had used, an express concession of 
the laws and customs of Edward. Henry II. is silent about these, although he re¬ 
peats the confirmation of his grandfather’s charter. The people however had begun 
to look back to a more ancient standard of law. The Norman conquest, and all 
that ensued upon it, had endeared the memory of their Saxon government. Its 
disorders were forgotten, or rather, were less odious to a rude nation, than the 
coercive justice by which they were afterwards restrained. Hence it became the 
favourite cry to demand the laws of Edward the Confessor ; and the Normans 
themselves, as they grew dissatisfied with the royal administration, fell into these 
English sentiments. But what these laws were, or more properly perhaps, these 
customs subsisting in the Confessor’s age, was not very distinctly understood. So 
far, however, was clear, that the rigorous feudal servitudes, the weighty tributes 
upon poorer freemen, had never prevailed before the conquest. In claiming the 
laws of Edward the Confessor, our ancestors meant but the redress of grievances 
which tradition told them had not always existed. 

It is highly probable, independently of the evidence supplied by tne charters of 
Henry I. and his two successors, that a sense of oppression had long been stimu¬ 
lating the subjects of so arbitrary a government, before they gave any demonstra¬ 
tions of it sufficiently palpable to find a place in history. But there are certainly 
no instances of rebellion, or even, as far as we know, of a constitutional resistance 
in parliament, down to the reign of Richard I. The revolt of the earls of Leicester 
and Norfolk against Henry II. which endangered his throne and comprehended his 
children with a large part of his barons, appears not to have been founded even 
upon the pretext of public grievances. Under Richard I., something more of a. 
national spirit began to show itself. For the king having left his chancellor 
William Longchamp joint regent and justiciary with the bishop of Durham during 
his crusade, the foolish insolence of the former, who excluded his co-adjutor from 
any share in the administration, provoked every one of the nobility. A convention 
of these, the king’s brother placing himself at their head, passed a sentence of re¬ 
moval and banishment upon the chancellor. Though there might be reason to 
conceive that this would not be unpleasing to the king, who was already apprised 
how much Longchamp had abused his trust, it was a remarkable assumption oi 
power by that assembly, and the earliest authority for a leading principle of our 
constitution, the responsibility of ministers to parliament. 




q ALL AM.] 


MAGNA CHARTA. 


2G3 


75.—MAGNA CHAETA. 

Hall am. 

In the succeeding reign of John, all the rapacious exactions usual to these Nor¬ 
man kings were not only redoubled, but mingled with other outrages of tyranny 
still more intolerable. These too were to be endured at the hands of a prince 
utterly contemptible for his folly and cowardice. One is surprised at the forbeai- 
anoe displayed by the barons, till they took arms at length m that confederacy 
which ended in establishing the Great Charter of Liberties. As this was the first 
effort towards a legal government, so is it beyond comparison the most impo t . 
event in our history, except that revolution without which its benefits won t 
rapidly have been annihilated. The constitution of England has indeed no single 
date from which its duration is to be reckoned. The institutions of positive law, 
the far more important changes which time has wrought in the order of society, 
during “x hundred years subsequent to the Great Charter, have 
lessened its direct application to our present circumstances. But it is still tlie 
lcev-stone of English liberty. All that has since been obtained is little more than 
as^confomation ^or commentary ; and if every subsequent law were to be swept 
a wav there would still remain the bold features that distinguish a free fiom a des 
™Uc monaX It has been lately the fashion to depreciate the value of Magna 
Charta as if it had sprung from the private ambition of a few selfish barons, and 
redressed only some feudal abuses. It is indeed of little importance by what 
motives those who obtained it were guided. The real characters of men mos 1 
tinmiished in the transactions of that time are not easily determined at preseiit. 
YetTf we brinv these ungrateful suspicions to the test, they prove destitute of all 
° , ■■ a . ormnl distribution of civil rights to all classes of free- 
taS o“aX In tlfis just solicitude for the 
l nd in the moderation which infringed upon no essential prerogative of the 

CnaX we may perceive a liberality and patriotism very unlike the selfishness 

i i • y ’ mptimps rashly imputed to those ancient barons. And, as far as we 
which is two great men, the pillars of our church and 

are guided y as entitl } ed be yond all the rest to the glory of this monu- 

state, may be consi e , , c terbury a nd William, earl of PembroKe. 

ment ; Stephen was indebted during that 

To their temperate zeal foi aJgal^jovernm^ ^ 

critical period for t g immoveable basis, and the preservation 

were about to exchange foi the ° e limited to a certain spm, according to 

By the Magna.Charta,d "Xed by guardians in chivalry restrained, 

the rank of the tenant, ^.^t ^ forbiddenj and widows secured 

the disparagement 11 regulations, extending to the sub-vassals of 

from compulsory military tenant in England. The 

the crown, redressed t ° „ towns and boroughs were declared in- 

franchises of the’ Jf^mmerce was guaranteed to alien merchants. The Court 

violable. The freedom of commerce g ^ was fixed at Westminster. 

TTxe tyKmny^xercised in the neighbourhood of royal forests met with some check, 
which was further enforced by the .the P-omd 
But the essential causes 0> agn . ; securit yfrom arbitrary imprisonment 

liberty and property of all freemen by gi g ( weot iuth chapter of Henry 

and arbitrary spoliation No freem , ( y { J to that of j 0 h u , the 

Hi ’s charter, which, as the existing law, I quote in picieiu 




264 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HALLAM. 


variations not being very material) “ shall be taken or imprisoned, or be disseised 
of his freehold, or liberties, or free customs, or be outlawed, or exiled, or any other¬ 
wise destroyed ; nor will we pass upon him, nor send upon him, but by lawful 
judgment of his peers, or by the law of the land. We will sell to no man, we will 
not deny, or delay to any man judgment or right.” It is obvious, that these words, 
interpreted by any honest court of law, convey an ample security for the two main 
rights of civil society. From the sera, therefore, of king John’s charter, it must 
have been a clear principle of our constitution, that no man can be detained in 
prison without trial. Whether courts of justice framed the writ of Habeas Corpus 
in conformity to the spirit of this clause, or found it already in their register, it 
became from that sera the right of every subject to demand it. That writ, rendered 
more actively remedial by the statute of Charles II., but founded upon the broad 
basis of Magna Charta, is the principal bulwark of English liberty ; and if ever tem- 
jDorary circumstances, or the doubtful plea of political necessity, shall lead men to 
look on its denial with apathy, the most distinguishing characteristic of our con¬ 
stitution will be effaced. 

As the clause recited above protects the subject from any absolute spoliation of 
his freehold rights, so others restrain the excessive amercements which had an 
almost equally ruinous operation. The magnitude of his offence, by the fourteenth 
clause of Henry III.’s charter, must be the measure of his fine ; and in every case 
the contenement (a word expressive of chattels necessary to each man’s station, as 
the arms of a gentleman, the merchandize of a trader, the plough and waggons of 
a peasant) was exempted from seizure. A provision was made in the charter of 
John, that no aid or escuage should be imposed, except in the three feudal cases of 
aid, without consent of parliament. And this was extended to aids paid by the 
city of London. But the clause was omitted in the three charters granted by Henry 
III., though parliament seems to have acted upon it in most part of his reign. It 
had however no reference to tallages imposed upon towns without their consent. 
Fourscore years were yet to elapse before the great principle of parliamentary 
taxation was explicitly and absolutely recognised. 

A law which enacts that justice shall neither be sold, denied, nor delayed, stamps 
with infamy that government under which it had become necessary. But from the 
time of the charter, according to Madox, the disgraceful perversions of right, which 
are upon record in the rolls of the exchequer, became less frequent. 

From this sera a new soul was infused into the people of England. Her liberties, 
at the best long in abeyance, became a tangible possession, and those indefinite 
aspirations for the laws of Edward the Confessor were changed into a steady regal’d 
for the Great Charter. Pass but from the history of Koger de Hoveden to that of 
Mathew Paris, from the second Henry to the third, and judge whether the victo¬ 
rious struggle had not excited an energy of public spirit to which the nation was 
before a stranger. The strong man, in the sublime language of Milton, was aroused 
from sleep, and shook his invincible locks. Tyranny indeed, and injustice will by 
all historians, not absolutely servile, be noted with moral reprobation ; but never 
shall we find in the English writers of the twelfth century that assertion of positive 
and national rights which distinguishes those of the next age, and particularly the 
monk of St. Albans. From his prolix history we may collect three material pro¬ 
positions as to the state of the English constitution during the long reign of Henry 
III. ; a prince to whom the epithet of worthless seems best applicable ; and who, 
without committing any flagrant crimes, was at once insincere, ill-judging, and 
pusillanimous. The intervention of such a reign was a very fortunate circumstance 
for public liberty ; which might possibly have been crushed in its infancy, if an 
Edward had immediately succeeded to the throne of John. 


MAGNA CHARTA. 


265 


HALLAM.] 


1. —The Great Charter was always considered as a fundamental law. But yet it 
was supposed to acquire additional security by frequent confirmation. This it re¬ 
ceived, with some not inconsiderable variation, in the first, second, and ninth years 
of Henry’s reign. The last of these is our present statute-book, and has never re¬ 
ceived any alterations ; but Sir E. Coke reckons thirty-two instances wherein it 
has been solemnly ratified. Several of these were during the reign of Henry III., 
and were invariably purchased by the grant of a subsidy. This prudent accom¬ 
modation of parliament to the circumstances of their age not only made the law 
itself appear more inviolable, but established that correspondence between supply 
and redress, which for some centuries was the balance-spring of our constitution. 
The charter indeed was often grossly violated by their administration. Even 
Hubert de Burgh, of whom history speaks more favourably than of Henry’s later 
favourites, though a faithful servant of the crown, seems, as is too often the case 
with such men, to have thought the king’s honour and interest concerned in main¬ 
taining an unlimited prerogative. The government was however much worse ad¬ 
ministered after his fall. From the great difficulty of compelling the king to observe 
the boundaries of law, the English clergy, to whom we are much indebted for their 
zeal in behalf of liberty during this reign, devised means of binding his conscience, 
and terrifying his imagination by religious sanctions. The solemn excommunica¬ 
tion, accompanied with the most awful threats, pronounced against the violaters of 
Magna Charta, is well known from our common histories. The king was a party 
to this ceremony, and sworn to observe the charter. But Henry III, though a very 
devout person, had his own notions as to the validity of an oath that affected his 
power, and indeed passed his life in a series of perjuries. According to the cieed 
of that age, a papal dispensation might annul any prior engagement ; and he was 
generally on sufficiently good terms with Rome to obtain such an indulgence. 

2. _Though the prohibition of levying aids or escuages without consent of parlia¬ 

ment had been omitted in all Henry’s charters, an omission for which we cannot 
assign any other motive than the disposition of his ministers to get rid of that 
restriction, yet neither one nor the other seem in fact to have been exacted at 
discretion ’throughout his reign. On the contrary, the barons frequently refused 
the aids, or rather subsidies, which his prodigality was always demanding. Indeed 
it would’ probably have been impossible for the king, however frugal, stripped as he 
was of so many lucrative though oppressive prerogatives by the Great Charter, to 
support the expenditure of government from his own resources. Tallages on his 
demesnes, and especially on the rich and ill-affected city of London, he imposed 
without scruple ; but it does not appear that he ever pretended to a right of general 
taxation. We may therefore take it for granted, that the clause in John’s charter, 
though not expressly renewed, was still considered as of binding force. The king 
was often put to great inconvenience by the refusal of supply ; and at one time 
was reduced to sell his plate and jewels, which the citizens of London buying, he 
was provoked to exclaim with envious spite against their riches, which he had not 

been able to exhaust. , „ . .... ... 

3 —The power of granting money must of course imply the power of withholding 

it • yet this has sometimes been little more than a nominal privilege. But in 
this reign the English parliament exercised their right of refusal, or, what was much 
better of conditional assent. Great discontent was expressed at the demand of a 
subsidy in 1237 ; and the king alleging that he had expended a great deal of 
money on his sister’s marriage with the emperor, and also upon his own, the barons 
answered, that he had not taken their advice in those affairs, nor ought they to 
share the punishment of acts of imprudence they had not committed. In 12*1, a 
subsidy having been demanded for the war in Poitou, the barons diew up a 







HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


286 


[HALL AM. 


remonstrance, enumerating all the grants they had made on former occasions, but 
always on condition that the imposition should not be turned into precedent, 
Their last subsidy, it appears, had been paid into the hands of four barons, who 
were to expend it at fheir discretion for the benefit of the king and kingdom ; aD 
early instance of parliamentary control over public expenditure. On a similai 
demand in 1244, the king was answered by complaints against the violation of the 
charter, the waste of former subsidies, and the mal-administration of his servants. 
Finally, the barons positively refused any money ; and he extorted 1500 marks 
from the city of London. Some years afterwards they declared their readiness tc 
burden themselves more than ever, if they could secure the observance of the 
charter ; and requested that the Justiciary, Chancellor, and Treasurer might be 
appointed with consent of parliament, according, as they asserted, to ancient 
customs, and might hold their offices during good behaviour. 


76.—RICHARD THE CRUSADER. 

Hume. 

The compunction of Richard for his undutiful behaviour towards his father was 
durable, and influenced him in the choice of his ministers and servants after his 
accession. Those who had seconded and favoured his rebellion, instead of meeting 
with that trust and honour which they expected, were surprised to find that they 
lay under disgrace with the new king, and were on all occasions hated and despised 
by him. The faithful ministers of Henry, who had vigorously opposed all the en¬ 
terprises of his sons, were received with open arms, and were continued in those 
offices which they had honourably discharged to their former master. This pru¬ 
dent conduct might be the result of reflection ; but in a prince, like Richard, so 
much guided by passion, and so little by policy, it was commonly ascribed to a 
principle still more virtuous and more honourable. 

Richaid, that he might make atonement to one parent for his breach of duty to the 
other, immediately sent orders for releasing the queen dowager from the confine¬ 
ment in which she had long been detained ; and he entrusted her with the govern¬ 
ment of England till his arrival in that kingdom. His bounty to,his brother John 
was rather profuse and imprudent. Besides bestowing on him the county of 
Moitaigne in Normandy, granting him a penson of four thousand marks a year, and 
manying him to Avisa, the daughter of the Earl of Glocester, by whom he inherited 
all the possessions of that opulent family, he increased his appanage, which the late 
king had destined him, by other extensive grants and concessions. He conferred 
on him the whole estate of William Peverell, which had escheated to the crown • 
he put him in possession of eight castles, with all the forests and honours annexed 
to them ; he delivered over to him no less than six earldoms, Cornwall, Devon 
Someiset, Nottingham, Dorset, Lancaster and Derby ; and endeavouring by favours 
to fix that vicious prince in his duty, he put it too much in his power, whenever he 
pleased, to depart from it. 

The king, impelled more by the love of military glory than by superstition, acted 
from the beginning of his reign, as if the sole purpose of his government had been 
the relief of the Holy Land, and the recovery of Jerusalem from the Saracens. This 
zeal against infidels, being communicated to his subjects, broke out in London on 
the day of his coronation, and made them find a crusade less dangerous and at¬ 
tained with more immediate profit. The prejudices of the age had made the lend¬ 
ing of money on interest pass by the invidious name of usury : yet the necessity 
of the practice had still continued it, and the greater part of that kind of dealing 
fell every where into the hands of the Jews; who being already infamous on account 



RICHARD THE CRUSADER. 


2C7 


HUME.] 








of their religion, had no honour to lose, and were apt to exercise a profession, 
odious in itself, by every kind of rigour, and even sometimes by rapine and extor¬ 
tion. The industry and frugality of this people had put them in possession of all 
the ready money, which the idleness and profusion common to the English with 
other European nations enabled them to lend at exorbitant and unequal interest. 
The monkish writers represent it as a great stain on the wise and equitable govern¬ 
ment of Henry, that he had carefully protected this infidel race from all injuries 
and insults ; but the zeal of Richard afforded the populace a pretence for venting 
their animosity against them. The king had issued an edict prohibiting their ap¬ 
pearance at his coronation, but some of them bringing him large presents from 
their nation, presumed, in confidence of that merit, to approach the hall in which 
he dined : being discovered, they were exposed to the insults of the bystanders ; 
they took to flight ; the people pursued them ; the rumour was spread, that the 
king had issued orders to massacre all the Jews ; a command so agreeable was 
executed in an instant, on such as fell into the hands of the populace ; those who 
had kept at home were exposed to equal danger ; the people, moved by rapacity 
and zeal, broke into their houses, which they plundered, after having murdered the 
owners ; where the Jews barricaded their doors and defended themselves with 
vigour, the rabble set fire to the houses and made way through the flames to exer¬ 
cise their pillage and violence ; the usual licentiousness of London, which the 
sovereign power with difficulty restrained, broke out with fury, and continued these 
outrages ; the houses of the richest citizens, though Christians, were next attacked 
and plundered ; and weariness and satiety at last put an end to the disorder ; yet, 
when the king impowered Glanville, the justiciary, to inquire into the authors of 
these crimes, the guilt was found to involve so many of the most considerable 
citizens, that it was deemed more prudent to drop the prosecution ; and very few 
suffered the punishment due to this enormity. But the disorder stopped not at 
London. The inhabitants of the other cities of England, hearing of this slaughter 
of the Jews, imitated the example : in York, five hundred of that nation, who had 
retired into the castle for safety, and found themselves unable to defend the place, 
murdered their own wives and children, threw the dead bodies over the walls upon 
the populace, and then setting fire to the houses, perished in the flames. The 
gentry of the neighbourhood, who were all indebted to the Jews, ran to the cathe¬ 
dral, where their bonds were kept, and made a solemn bonfire of the papers before 
the altar. The compiler of the Annals of Waverley, in relating these events, blesses 
the Almighty for thus delivering over this impious race to destruction. 

The ancient situation of England, when the people possessed little riches, and 
the public no credit, made it impossible for sovereigns to bear the expense of a 
steady or durable war even on their frontiers ; much less could they find regular 
means for the support of distant expeditions like those into Palestine, which were 
more the result of popular frenzy than of sober reason or deliberate policy. Richard, 
therefore, knew that he must carry with him all the treasure necessary for his en¬ 
terprise, and that both the remoteness of his own country and its poverty made it 
unable to furnish him with those continued supplies which the exigencies of so 
perilous a war must necessarily require. His father had left him a treasure of 
above a hundred thousand marks ; and the king, negligent of every consideration 
but his present object, endeavoured to augment this sum by all expedients, how 
pernicious soever to the public, or dangerous to royal authority. He put to sale 
the revenues and manors of the crown ; the offices of greatest trust and power, 
even those of forester and sheriff, which anciently were so important, became venal; 
the dignity of chief justiciary, in whose hands w T as lodged the whole execution of 
the laws, was sold to Pfugh de Puzas, bishop of Durham, for a thousand marks; 






268 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HUME. 

the same prelate bought the earldom of Northumberland for life ; many of the 
champions of the cross, who had repented of their vow, purchased the liberty of 
violating it; and Richard, who stood less in need of men than of money, dispensed, 
on these conditions, with their attendance. 

Elated with the hopes of fame, which in that age attended no wars but those against 
the infidels, he was blind to every other consideration ; and when some of his wiser 
ministers objected to this dissipation of the revenue and power of the crown, he 
replied, that he would sell London itself, could he find a purchaser. Nothing in¬ 
deed could be a stronger proof how negligent he was of all future interests, in com¬ 
parison of the crusade, than his selling, for so small a sum as ten thousand 
marks, the vassalage of Scotland, together with the fortresses of Roxburgh and Ber¬ 
wick, the greatest acquisition that had been made by his father during the course 
of his victorious reign ; and his accepting the homage of William in the usual 
terms, merely for the territories which that prince held in England. The English, 
of all ranks and stations, were oppressed by numerous exactions ; menaces were 
employed, both against the innocent and the guilty, in order to extort money from 
them : and where a pretence was wanting against the rich, the king obliged them, 
by the fear of his displeasure, to lend him sums which, he knew, it would never be 
in his power to repay. 

But Richard, though he sacrificed every interest and consideration to the success 
of this pious enterprise, carried so little the appearance of sanctity in his conduct, 
that Fulk, curate of Neuilly, a zealous preacher of the crusade, who from that merit 
had acquired the privilege of speaking the boldest truths, advised him to rid him¬ 
self of his notorious vices, particularly his pride, avarice, and voluptuousness, which 
he called the king’s three favourite daughters. You counsel well, replied Richard, 
and I hereby dispose of the first to the Templars , of the second to the Benedictines , and 
of the third to my prelates. 

Richard, jealous of attempts which might be made on England during his absence, 
laid prince John, as well as his natural brother Geoffrey Archbishop of York, under 
engagements, confirmed by their oaths, that neither of them should enter the king¬ 
dom till his return ; though he thought proper, before his departure, to withdraw 
this prohibition. The administration was left in the hands of Hugh bishop of 
Durham, and of Longchamp bishop of Ely, whom he appointed justiciaries and 
guardians of the realm. The latter was a Frenchman of mean birth and of a violent 
character; who by art and address had insinuated himself into favour, whom Richard 
had created chancellor, and whom he had engaged the pope also to invest with the 
legatine authority, that, by centering every kind of power in his person, he might 
the better ensure the public tranquillity. All the military and turbulent spirits 
flocked about the person of the king, and were impatient to distinguish themselves 
against the infidels in Asia ; whither his inclinations, his engagements, led him, and 
whither he was impelled by messages from the king of France, ready to embark in 
this enterprise. 

The emperor Frederic, a prince of great spirit and conduct, had already taken 
the road to Palestine at the head of 150,000 men, collected from Germany and all 
the northern states. Having surmounted every obstacle thrown in his way by the 
artifices of the Greeks and the power of the infidels, he had penetrated to the 
borders of Syria ; when, bathing in the cold river Cydnus during the greatest heat 
of the summer season, he was seized with a mortal distemper, which put an end to 
his life, and his rash enterprise. His army, under the command of his son Conrade, 
reached Palestine ; but was so diminished by fatigue, famine, maladies, and the 
sword, that it scarcely amounted to eight thousand men ; and was unable to 
make any progress against the great power, valour and conduct of Saladin. These 


RICHARD THE CRUSADER. 


269 


HUME.] 


reiterated calamities attending the crusades, had taught the kings of France and 
England, the necessity of trying another road to the Holy Land ; and they deter¬ 
mined to conduct their aimies thither by sea, to carry their provisions along with 
them, and by means of their naval power, to maintain an open communication with 
their own states, and with the western parts of Europe. The place of lendezvous 
was appointed in the plains of Yezelay on the borders of Burgundy. Philip and 
Richard on their arrival there, found their combined army amount to one hundred 
thousand men ; a mighty force, animated with glory and religion, conducted by two 
warlike monarchs, provided with every thing which their several dominions could 
supply, a nd not to be overcome but by their own misconduct, 01 by the unsuimount¬ 
able obstacles of nature. 

The French prince and the English here reiterated their promises of cordial 
friendship, pledged their faith not to invade each other’s dominions during the 
crusade, mutually exchanged the oaths of all their barons and pi elates to the same 
effect, and subjected themselves to the penalty of interdicts and excommunications, 
if they should ever violate this public and solemn engagement. They then sepa¬ 
rated, Philip took the road to Genoa, Richard that to Maiseilles, with a view of 
meeting their fleets, which were severally appointed to rendezvous in these har¬ 
bours. They put to sea ; and nearly about the same time, weie obliged by stiess 
of weather to take shelter in Messina, where they were detained during the whole 
winter. This incident laid the foundation of animosities which proved fatal to their 

enterprise. 


77.—THE FLEET OF CCEUR DE LION. 

Southey. 

The fleet with which Coeur de Lion sailed from Sicily, consisted of thirteen of 
those large vessels called dromones ; 150 of what were then called busses ; fifty- 
three galleys, and a great number of small craft. The Sicilians said that so fine a 
fleet had never before been seen in the harbour of Messina, and probably never 
ao-ain would. They were amazed at the magnitude, and number, and beauty of the 
shins The French part of the armament had excited no such admiration ; and 
the feeling of envious hostility which the French king afterwards manifested toward 
Richard was, in part, no doubt occasioned by the knowledge of his naval superiority. 
The sailors, also, were what English sailors from that time have never ceased to be; 
in the storms which they encountered on their way to the Levant, they are said, b } 
one who was in the fleet, to have done every thing that it was possible for human 
skill to do. More than any other historical character Richard Cceur de Lion 
resembles a knight of romance ; and the circumstances which occurred m his way 

to Palestine have the air of an adventure in romance more than of : aU h + f e ^iiaiii'Tea’ 
though the facts are incontestable. “ He was no sooner abroad m the 
but a great tempest arose, wherewith his whole navy was sore tossed and tm o 
qnd down the seas ” The king himself was driven first to Ciete, after*aids to 
Ehodes Srte of his ships foundered off the coast of Cyprus: three others were 
refused admittance into the harbours there ; they were wrecked 
and the men who escaped to shore were cast into prison. The vessel with queen 

Joan and the lady Befengaria on board was driven in ^-^."“Jn wfs 
requested permission to land, announcing who they were, and tI ‘ 

refused One of the Comneni family, Isaac by name, had taken posses; o ot 
Cyprus for himself, in fall sovereignty. Like other Greeks, or Griffons as they were 
called he thought that the crusaders, if not worse than Saracens, were quite as 
much to be dreaded: such reports as might reach him of K.chards exploits at 






270 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [SOUTHEY. 

Messina were not likely to induce a more favourable opinion ; and he had at this 
time assembled his forces at Limisso, with the determination of resisting any 
adventurers who might attempt to land. 

Rhodes was not so distant, but that Richard heard how his people had been 
treated by the Cypriot emperor (as he was styled) in time to demand redress. He 
made immediately for Limisso, and found his affianced wife and his sister still off 
the harbour, in which they had been inhospitably, if not inhumanly, forbidden to 
enter. Perhaps the very strength of his resentment made him feel that it became 
him on this occasion to restrain his anger. Thrice he demanded the liberation of 
his people, and the restitution of whatever had been saved from the wrecks : those 
demands proving ineffectual, he then proceeded to take the justice that was de'nied 
him, and to inflict due punishment upon the offender. Isaac had easily captured 
men exhausted by long struggling with tempestuous weather, and who had hardly 
saved their lives by swimming to shore ; but he must have been the weakest of 
men to think of opposing a fleet of crusaders with a host of undisciplined and half¬ 
armed Cypriots. Few of them, it is said, had any better weapons than clubs or 
stones •, and they thought to protect themselves with a barricade formed of logs, 
planks, chests, and benches,—whatever could be hastily brought together. Richard, 
meantime, proceeded toward the landing-place with his galleys and small boats. 
His archers led the way, and soon cleared it, for their arrows are said to have fallen 
on the Cypriots like rain upon the summer grass. The victors, “ being but footmen, 
weather beaten, weary, and wet,” were in no plight for pursuing the routed enemy ; 
they entered the town, and found it deserted by the inhabitants, but full of wealth 
and of provisions of every kind. Such of his ships as were collected then entered 
the port ; and Berengaria and his sister were received by Richard as a conqueror in 
the city where a refuge from the sea had been refused them. 

During the course of the day, Isaac rallied the fugitives, about six miles from 
the town, and as if he supposed that weakness alone had withheld., the crusaders 
from pursuing their advantage, prepared to attack them on the morrow. But 
Cceur de Lion allowed him no time for this. Intelligence of his movements and 
of his designs was easily obtained, for Isaac was a tyrant ; guides also offered them¬ 
selves ; food, wine, and success had presently refreshed the English ; long before 
daybreak they were armed, and in motion ; and the Cypriots were taken so com¬ 
pletely by surprise, that they were “ slain like beasts.” The emperor Isaac escaped, 
not only unarmed, but half-naked ; so utterly had he been unprepared for such an 
attack. His horses, his armour, and his standard, were taken. The standard was 
sent to England ; and when Coeur de Lion returned thither, he deposited it himself 
at King St. Edmund’s shrine. Terrified at this second discomfiture, Isaac now sent 
ambassadors, proposing to restore the prisoners whom he had unjustly captured, 
with all that had been saved from the wrecks ; to pay 20,000 marks in amends 
for the loss that had been sustained by shipwreck ; to accompany Coeur de Lion to 
the Holy Land, and to serve him therewith 1000 knights, 400 light horsemen, and 
500 well-armed foot ; to acknowledge him for his sovereign lord, and swear fealty 
to him accordingly ; and place his daughter and heiress, as hostage, in his hands. 
These conditions, more rigorous than Richard would have thought of imposing, were 
admitted. Isaac then came to the King of England in the field; and there, in 
presence of the chiefs of the crusaders, swore fealty, and promised, upon his oath 
thus pledged, not to depart till he should have performed all for which he had 
engaged. By this time Richard had been too well acquainted with his character to 
place much reliance either upon his word or oath ; tents were assigned for him and 
his retinue ; and a guard was appointed to keep him in custody. Offended at this, 
OT affrighted by it, and with that inconsistency which proceeds from rashness as 


THE FLEET OF CCEUR DE LION. 


271 


SOUTHEY.] 

well as fear, lie withdrew daring the night, while his guards, suspecting no such 
evasion, were asleep, and then sent messengers to renounce the treaty which he 
had made. 

Richard is said not to have been displeased at the opportunity that this fresh 
provocation afforded him. Guy of Lusignan, the dethroned King of Jerusalem, and 
the last Christian who bore that title otherwise than as an empty pretension, having 
purchased his liberty from Saladin by the surrender of Ascalon, came at this time 
to Cyprus, with his brother Geoffrey, with Raymond prince of Antioch, and Boemund 
his son, and other ejected lords of Palestine, to implore Richard’s assistance for re¬ 
establishing them in their lost estates. Richard intrusted part of his army to 
Guy and Raymond, that they might pursue Isaac, and prosecute the conquest of the 
island by land ; while he with one part of his galleys, and Robert de Turnham with 
the other, coasted, it and cut off his flight by sea. Wherever they came the 
towns, cities, and castles on the coast, were abandoned at their approach, and they 
took possession of all the shipping. Having thus swept the coast, and precluded 
the possibility of the emperor’s escape from the island, Richard returned to Limisso 
and there was married to the lady Berengaria by one of his own chaplains ; his 
queen was crowned the same day by the bishop of Evreux ; the bishop of Bayonne, 
and the archbishops of Apamea and Aux, assisting at the ceremony. Cyprus is 
the first island that was ever conquered by an English fleet, and Berengaria the 
only English queen whose coronation was ever performed in a foreign country. 
He then moved into the interior, to complete the conquest Nicosia, the capital, 
was presently surrendered, and the strong castle of Cezzia afterwards, w T ith which 
Isaac’s daughter yielded herself to the conqueror, who placed her as a companion 
to the queen. Toward the father he was less courteous ; that rash and unhappy 
man had taken refuge in a monastery ; and when he heard that the place of his 
retreat was discovered, and that Richard was marching thither, every strong-hold 
in the island having been given up, he threw himself upon his mercy, praying only 
that his life and limbs might be spared. Mercy was a virtue but little practised in 
those times. Richard sent him to Tripoli, there to be kept close prisoner in chains. 
When the wretched man heard this sentence, he said, that, if he were put in irons, it 
would soon occasion his death : upon which Richard, with contemptuous bitterness, 
replied, “ He saith well; and seeing that he is a nobleman, and that our mind is 
not to shorten his life, but only to keep him safe, that he may not start away again 
and do more hurt, let his chains be made of silver.” 

Isaac has not been deemed worthy of any further notice by those who recorded 
the events of Richard’s crusade ; most probably he died in confinement; nor is 
anything more related of his daughter, than that queen Berengaria either had, or 
thought she had, cause for regretting that her husband had placed so attractive a 
companion about her person. The Cypriots, as is always the lot of a conquered 
people, paid heavily for passing from one yoke to another : they were immediately 
taxed to the unmerciful amount of half their moveables ; and the stores that were 
found in the island were so considerable, that it is said the Christian armies in 
Palestine could hardly have carried on their operations had it not been for this 
great and casual supply. After these exactions, Richard, considering Cyprus as his 
own, by the acknowledged right of conquest, confirmed to the inhabitants the rights 
and usages which they had formerly enjoyed under the Greek emperors, but which 
had been suspended during the late usurpation. He appointed Richard de 
Camuelle and Robert de Turnham governors of the island; and when, in the 
ensuing year, after a series of exploits which have rendered his name almost as 
celebrated in Mahommcdan history as in European romance, he was about to leave 
Palestine, haring been prevented by the withdrawal of the French king, from 






272 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [SOUTHED* 

restoring Guy de Lusignan to his lost kingdom of Jerusalem, he bestowed upon 
him the kingdom of Cyprus as some compensation,—a kingdom which his descen¬ 
dants continued to possess for nearly three centuries. 

Coeur de Lion was detained in Cyprus only a few weeks by his marriage, the 
conquest, and the settlement of the island. In his way from thence to Acre he 
fell in with a vessel of the largest size, sailing under French colours ; but requiring 
more evidence than the colours and the suspicious language of the spokesman, he 
soon ascertained that it was a Saracen ship, laden with stores of all kinds for the 
relief of Acre, which the Christians were then closely besieging. The brother of 
Saladin had despatched it from Baouk; there were seven emirs on board ; and 
the number of troops has been stated by the lowest account at 650, by the highest 
at 1500. They were brave men, well provided with the most formidable means of 
defence ; and desperate, because they knew how little mercy was to be expected 
from a fleet of Crusaders. The size, and more especially the height, of their ship, 
gave them an advantage which for a while counterbalanced that of numbers on 
Richard’s part ; for his galleys could make but little impression upon her strong 
sides. Richard’s people, brave as they were, were daunted by the Greek fire, which 
was poured upon them, which they had never encountered before, but of which 
what they had heard was enough to impress them with dread. The great dramond, 
as she is called, might probably have beaten oft her assailants and pursued her 
course, if Richard’s men had not dreaded their king’s anger more even than the 
terrible fire of the enemy. “ I will crucify all my soldiers if she should escape,” 
was his tremendous threat. His example availed more than his threat could have 
done : they boarded the huge hulk like Englishmen ; and the Saracens, when they 
saw themselves overpowered, ran below, by their commander’s order, and endea¬ 
voured to sink the ship, that their enemies might perish with them. Part of the 
cargo, however, was saved before she sank, and some of the crew were taken to 
mercy, though mercy was not the motive; for it was the chiefs, it is said, who were 
spared for the sake of their ransom. If the stores and ammunition with w r hich 
this ship was laden had reached Acre, it was thought that the city could never 
have been taken. 

It appears that the ships of war at this time were all galleys ; that few of them 
had more than two rows of oars, and many of them only one tier ; these, being 
shorter and moved with more facility, were used in the Levant for throwing wild¬ 
fire. This composition, which the Greeks called liquid fire, and which by Latin 
and later historians is commonly denominated Greek fire, is said to have been 
invented by Callinicus, an architect of Heliopolis (afterwards called Balbec), about 
the latter part of the seventh century ; and it continued in use some six hundred 
years, till the more destructive powers of gunpowder were applied to the purposes of 
war. The invention proceeded from the school of Egyptian chemistry ; for Calli- 
nicus was in the service of the caliphs, from whence he went over to the Greek 
emperor, expecting, perhaps, a better reward for his discovery from the government 
to which it would be most useful. Constantinople was, indeed, saved by it in two 
sieges ; Saracen fleets were deterred from attempting to pass the straits of the 
Hellespont, when they knew that their enemies were prepared with it; and while 
the Greeks kept the secret of the composition to themselves, as they did most 
carefully for four centuries, they possessed a more efficient means of defence than 
any other people. When the Pisans were at the height of their naval power, the 
emperor Alexius sent out a fleet against them, in which, as it appears, for the first 
time, lion’s-lieads of bronze were fixed at the ships’ prows, and from their open 
mouths this liquid fire was discharged in streams. This he devised as being likely 
to terrify as well as to astonish them j but the composition was, no doubt, sent 


SOUTHEY.! 


THE FLEET OF CCEUR DE LION. 


273 


with surer effect frora moveable tubes. The commander who led the way in this 
action wasted his fire ; another officer, when in great danger, extricated himself by 
its use, and burnt four of the enemy’s ships and the Pisans, who saw that the 
fire spread upwards, downwards, or laterally, at the will of those who directed it, 
and that they could not by any means extinguish it, took to flight. 

The Greek fire was forced in its liquid state from hand engines, or thrown in jars; 
or arrows were discharged, the heads of which were armed, more formidable than 
with their own barbs, with tow dipt in this dreadful composition. During the 
crusades, the Saracens became possessed of the secret : whether they discovered it, 
or it was betrayed to them, is not known ; but they employed it with terrible 
effect ; and the crusaders, who feared nothing else, confessed their fear of this. At 
this time it was employed on both sides. The only description of a naval action in 
those ages, which explains the system of naval tactics, relates to the siege of Acre, 
in which Richard was engaged. The crusaders drew up their fleet in the form of a 
half-moon, with the intent of closing upon the enemy if he should attempt to break 
their line. Their best galleys were placed in the two ends of the curve, where they 
might act with most alacrity, and least impediment. The rowers were ail upon 
the lower deck ; and on the upper the soldiers were drawn up in a circle, with 
their bucklers touching each other. The action began with a discharge of missile 
weapons on both sides ; the Christians then rowed forward with all stress of oars, 
endeavouring, after the ancient manner, to stave in their enemies sides, 01 othei- 
wise run them down : when they came to close quarters they grappled ; skill was 
then no longer of avail, and the issue depended upon personal strength and intre¬ 
pidity. The Greek fire seems to have been used even when the ships were fastened 
to each other : the likelihood of its communicating from the enemy’s vessel to that 
which had thrown it, was much less when galleys were engaged, than it would be in 
vessels rigged like later men of war ; and fire might be employed more freely, 
because there were no magazines in danger. The crusaders had so greatly the 
superiority at sea, owing as much to seamanship as numbers, that a sagacious 
prisoner whom Philip Augustus interrogated concerning the best means whereby 
the Holy Land might be re-covered and maintained, told him it would be by keeping 
the seas and destroying the trade of Egypt. His advice was, that they should take 
Damietta, and rely upon their fleets more than upon their strength in horse and 

foot. 


78.—THE CRUSADE. 

From the « Penny Magazine.” 

On the 10th of Juno, 1191, an astounding clangour of trumpets and drums and 
horns, and every other instrument in the Christian camp, haded the arrival of 
Bichard and his host in the roadsted of Acre. The welcome was sincere, ,oi the 
aid was opportune and indispensable. Without the L,on-heart here must have 
been a capitulation of the Christians to Saladin. The French king had ainvi 
time before, but bad done nothing. Frederic of Suabia, who had takenthe - 
maud of the remnant of the army of the emperor Fredenc ar aro^Si, < 
not been able to give a favourable turn to the siege o - cie, ■>_ , 

time dead, and the Duke of Austria, who assumed the command ofthe Im c a . ’ 
was a formalist and a sluggard, being at the same time conceited »"d J«hous. The 
loss of life among the Christians had been fearful. The sword and the i., - 

other diseases, had swept away six archbishops, twe ie l ' °I l > J 
hundred barons, whose names are recorded in history, and one bun bed a . y 






274 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[PENNY MAGAZINE, 

thousand of “ the meaner sort.” The siege had lasted well nigh two years, and 
the Crusaders were not only still outside the walls, but actually pressed and hemmed 
in, and almost besieged themselves, by Saladin, who occupied Mount Carmel and 
all the neighbouring heights with an immense army. But the arrival of the English 
king put a new spirit and life into the languishing siege ; and on the 12th of July, 
only a month and two days after his landing, Acre was taken. The glory of the 
achievement was justly given to Coeur-de-Lion— 

So that king Philip was annoyed there at the thing, 

That there was not of him a word, hut all of Richard the King.* 

The French and English soldiery entered fully into the piques and jealousies of 
their respective kings, who did not agree the better for the treaty which had been 
concluded between them while in Sicily. Nothing but a Holy War could ever have 
brought these two sovereigns to attempt to act in concert with one another. Philip 
was constantly aiming at the overthrow of Richard’s dominions in France, and 
Richard was resolute to keep those French provinces, which rendered him even in 
France as powerful as Philip. These quarrels nearly split the great confederacy of 
the Crusaders. Each king had his partisans. The Genoese and Templars espoused 
the quarrel of France ; the Pisans and Hospitallers, or the Knights of St. John, 
took part with England ; and, on the whole, it appears that Richard’s more brilliant 
valour, and greater command of money and other means, rendered the English fac¬ 
tion the stronger of the two. The Templars and the Hospitallers, the Genoese and 
the Pisans, were old rivals, and had often fought against one another even in the 
Holy Land, and when surrounded by their common enemy, and the foe of all Chris¬ 
tians : they were therefore sure to take opposite parts ; but among the other 
Crusaders, who were not divided by such rivalry and enmity, and who looked ex¬ 
clusively to the triumph of the Christian cause, the Coeur-de-Lion was evidently 
regarded as the best present leader and as the most valorous prince that had ever 
taken the Cross and adhered to the vows he had pledged at taking it. He never 
showed himself in the camp without being hailed enthusiastically by the great body 
of the Christian army ; and lie had not been a month in the country ere the Sara¬ 
cens began to speak of him with mingled respect and terror. During the siege of 
Acre he had worked like a common soldier at the heavy battering-engines ; and when 
assailed by a violent endemic fever, he had caused himself to be carried to the 
trenches on a silk pallet or mattress. Even without his ever liberal guerdon the 
minstrels might have been animated to sing his praise, and to declare, as they did, 
that if the sepulchre of our Lord were ever again recovered, it must be through 
king Richard. All this gave rise to fresh jealousies in the breast of Philip, who. 
though brave, was far more distinguished as an adroit statesman in Europe than as 
a warrior in the Holy Land. 

Philip Augustus was gone for France, and the Crusaders seemed disposed rather 
to remain where they were than to go to Jerusalem. Having restored the battered 
walls of Acre, Richard Coeur-de-Lion prepared to march ; but the majority of the 
Christians by no means shared in his impatience, “for the wine of'Cyprus was of 
the very best quality, provisions were very abundant, and the city abounded with 
beautiful women who had come from the neighbouring islands and the gravest 
knights had made a Capua of Acre. When a herald-at-arms proclaimed with a 
loud voice that the army was going to begin its march towards Jaffa, many of the 
pilgrims held down their heads or slunk away into the houses of the pleasant town. 
The impatient king of England went out of Acre and encamped in the neighbour¬ 
hood ; and when he had been there some days, and when the clergy by their preach- 

* Robert of Gloucester .—Rhymed Chronicle. 


PENNY MAGAZINE.] THE CRUSADE. 275 

ing had recalled to the mind3 of the Crusaders the sad captivity of Jerusalem, tho 
flames of enthusiasm were again lighted. The pilgrims all went forth to the camp, 
and Bichard having given the signal to depart, one hundred thousand men crossed 
the river Belus, advancing between the sea and Mount Carmel. Richard had left 
behind him his sister and wife at Acre, and had strictly prohibited women from 
following the army. It was on the 22nd of August, 1191, that the march began. 
The distance between Acre and Jerusalem is scarcely more than eighty of our miles; 
but the country is difficult, and was guarded by a numerous, a brave, and active 
enemy. Of Richard’s forces scarcely more than thirty thousand were to be con¬ 
sidered as soldiers, and these were of all nations. They marched in five divisions: 
the Knights Templars led the van ; the Knights of St. John brought up the rear. 
There was a great standard car, like the Lombard Carroccio, and like that which 
had been used at Northallerton in the great battle of the Standard. It ran upon four 
wheels that were sheathed with iron, and it carried the standard of the Holy Mar 
suspended on a high mast. During the fury of battles, such of the wounded as 
could be recovered in the melee were brought round this car ; and in case of any 
reverse or retreat, the car was the general rallying-point for the Christian army. 
While Richard and his mixed host marched slowly along between the mountains 
and the sea, a fleet which carried their baggage, provisions, and munitions of war, 
glided along the coast within sight of the troops. Every night, when the army 
halted, the heralds of the several camps cried aloud three times, “ Save the Holy 
Sepulchre ! ” and every soldier bent his knee, and raised his hands and eyes to 
heaven, and said “ Amen ! ” Every morning, at the point of day, the standard car, 
at the command of Richard, was put in motion, and then the Crusaders formed in 
order of march, the priests and monks chanting a psalm the while, or singing a 
hymn— 

Lignum Crucis, 

Signum Ducis. 


I 


Saladin, who had been reinforced from all parts, infested their march every day 
and encamped near them every night, with an army greatly superior in numbers. 
The Crusaders scarcely advanced three leagues a day : their road was cut by ra¬ 
vines and mountain torrents ; there were many steep and intricate defiles, with 
wood and underwood ; and at every difficult point there stood the cunning Paynim 
to dispute the passage, or to make them suffer from an ambuscade attack. These 
Saracens were not heavily armed, like the Christians ; they carried only a bow and 
quiver, or a sword, a dagger, and a javelin. Some of them were only aimed with f 
club, bristling at one extremity vfith sharp steel points, that went through a coat 
of mail like a needle through a garment of cotton or woollen stuff. Many^of them, 
well mounted on Arab horses, kept constantly hovering round Richard s line of 
march, flying when they were pursued, and returning to the charge when the pur¬ 
suit ceased, or whenever they saw a favourable opportunity. Their movements 
were compared, now to the flight of the swallow, and now to that of an importunate 
swarm of summer flies. Their archers frequently did great execution, even with¬ 
out showing themselves, for they were hid behind trees, or among the tall growing 
weeds, or they bent their bov r s with a sure aim behind rocks. Whenever a Ciu- 
sader fell—and many more fell by disease than by the arms of the infidel—his 
comrades dug him a shallow grave, and buried him on the spot where ie ha 
breathed his last, and then chanted the service for the dead as they resumed their 


march. _ . 

On the 7th of September, Richard brought Saladin to a general action near 

Azotus the Ashdod of the Bible, on the sea-shore, and about nine mixes fiom 






276 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [rENNY MAGAZINE. 

Ascalon. The sultan had there collected two hundred thousand men to oppose 
Richard’s farther advance ; and, before the battle began, swarms of Bedouin Arabs 
collected on the declivities of mountains upon the flank of the Crusaders. Richard 
closed up his five divisions and ordered them all to remain on the defensive. 
“ The batta’ions of the Christians,” says old Vinesauf, “stood in so solid a mass 
that an apple thrown anywhere among them could not have reached the ground 
without touching a man or a horse.” The Saracens charged this iron mass. They 
might as well have charged the flank of Mount Carmel or Mount Sion. They were 
thrown off with great slaughter, and then the mass moved slowly onwards, not 
deviating in the slightest degree from the line of advance which Richard had origi¬ 
nally chosen. The Saracens attacked again and in greater force, and being again 
repulsed and thrown into some confusion, Richard raised his battle-axe and gave 
the word, and the great solid body broke up into its several parts, and three of the 
five columns charged among the Paynim. King Richard showed himself every¬ 
where where the Crusaders had need of succour ; and wherever he appeared his 
presence was announced by the flight of the Turks. After a display of valour 
which was never surpassed, and of more cool conduct and generalship than might 
have been expected from him, he gained a complete victory. Mourning the loss of 
many thousand men, and of thirty-two Emirs or chiefs of the first rank, Saladin, 
the victor of many a field, retreated in great disorder, having had, at one time, only 
seventeen Mamelukes near his person. Richard, who was slightly wounded on the 
left side, advanced without further opposition to Jaffa, the Joppa of Scripture, of 
which he took possession. Here he was only thirty miles from the Holy City. 
As the country in advance of that position was as yet clear of enemies, or was 
occupied only by disheartened fugitives, the Lion-heart would have followed up his 
advantages ; but many of the Crusaders, less hardy than himself, were worn out 
by the climate and by fatigue, and the French barons urged the necessity of resto¬ 
ring the fortifications of Jaffa before they advanced. No sooner had Richard con¬ 
sented to this measure than the Crusaders, instead of prosecuting the work with 
vigour, abandoned themselves to luxurious ease. The English king was joined bv 
his young wife and sister, and the other ladies he had left at Acre, who came to 
Jaffa by sea. Being impatient of repose, he had recourse to hunting and other 
sports of the field, disregarding the evident fact that hordes of Saracens and Arabs 
were scouring the country in detached parties. One day he was actually surrounded 
in a wood, and would have lost either his life or his liberty, had not one of his 
companions, William de Pratelles, a knight of Provence, cried out in the Arabic 
tongue, “ I am the king ! Spare my life ! ” and by drawing attention upon himself, 
given Richard the opportunity of escaping, The faithful William de Pratelles was 
carried off a prisoner to Saladin, but Richard soon redeemed him, by giving in ex¬ 
change ten Emirs whom he had taken. On another occasion, a company of Tem¬ 
plars, in quest of forage, fell into an ambuscade. The Lion-heart sent the brave 
Earl of Leicester to their aid, promising he would follow as soon as he could get 
on his armour. Before that rather tedious operation could be completed, they told 
him the Templars and the Earl were being crushed by the number of the enemy. 
Without finishing his steel toilette, and without waiting for any one, Cceur-de-Lion 
leaped on his war-horse, and galloped to the spot, declaring he were unworthy of 
the name of king, if he abandoned those whom he had promised to succour. He 
spurred into the thickest of the fight, and so laid about him with that tremendous 
battle-axe which he had caused to be forged by the best smiths in England before 
he departed for the East, that the Earl of Leicester and all the Knights Templars 
who had not fallen previously to his arrival were rescued. On such onslaughts, say 
the chroniclers, his cry was still—“ St. George ! St. George !” 


THE CRUSADE 


277 


PENNY MAGAZINE.] 

At the end of May, 1192, the Crusaders once more set out on their march to¬ 
wards Jerusalem, under the command of Richard. The march now began on a 
Sabbath-day, the fighting men being to all appearance full of courage, and the poor 
pilgrims who followed them full of hope, for they raised their voices and said, “ 0 
Lord ! Thanks be unto thee, for the time of the deliverance of the Holy City is now 
at hand ! ” The warriors had ornamented their helmets with bright cockades and 
flowers ; the flags of the army had been renewed, and shined splendidly in the sun. 
When not employed in singing psalms and canticles of victory, all tongues spoke 
the praise of the Lion-hearted king who remained at his' post when others had de¬ 
serted it, and who was now assuredly leading them to a final victory. Early in 
June they encamped in the valley of Hebron. But here Richard received fresh mes¬ 
sengers from England, bringing dismal accounts of plots within and armed confede¬ 
racies without his dominions. We follow the most consistent, though not the most 
generally received account, in saying that, on this intelligence, and at the prospect 
of the increasing power of the Saracens (who had not only strongly fortified and 
garrisoned the Holy City, but had occupied all the mountain-passes leading to it, 
and had thrown a tremendous force between the city and his advanced posts), and 
of the increasing weakness and destitution of the Christian forces, to whose wants 
he could no longer administer, as his money was all spent, Richard now came to a 
stand, and turned his heart and thoughts to the West, where his crown was almost 
within the grasp of his brother John, and whither he was conjured to return by his 
still able and active mother Eleanor, and by all such of his ministers as were faith¬ 
ful unto him. A council was assembled at his suggestion : it was composed of five 
knights of the Temple, five knights of St. John, five barons of k ranee, and five barons 
or Christian lords, who held lands in Palestine ; and it deliberated during several 
successive days. In the end, this council declared that, under present circum¬ 
stances, it would be better to march to the south and besiege Cairo, whence Saladin 
drew his main supplies, than to advance and besiege Jerusalem. This decision was 
perhaps a wise one, but it was adopted far too late. 

If the expedition to Egypt and the siege of Cairo had ever been seriously con¬ 
templated, it was presently seen that the scheme was impracticable ; for as soon as 
a countermarch from the Hebron was commenced, all discipline abandoned the 
camp, and, after some savage quarrels and conflicts of arms among themselves, the 
mass of the French and Germans deserted the Standard of the Cross altogether. 
Richard then leisurely fell back upon Acre. The Saracens now descended fiom 
the mountains of Judsea, pouring through every pass and gorge like the headlong 
torrents in the winter season ; and Saladin soon took the town of Jaffa oi Joppa, 
all but the well-defended citadel, in which Cceur-de-Lion had left a manful garri¬ 
son. A tremendous contest ensued between Saladin and Richard. 

As the battle of Jaffa was the most brilliant, so also was it the last fought by 
the Lion-heart in the Holy Land. The duke of Burgundy had withdrawn to Tyre, 
and had refused to take any further part in the war. The Germans, commanded 
by the duke of Austria, had quitted Palestine for Europe ; and most of the Crusa¬ 
ders of other nations were wearied with the contest or engaged in their old jealou¬ 
sies and feuds. Richard’s health, and the health of his great adversary Saladin, 
were both seriously affected ; and a mutual admiration and respect appears to have 
forwarded a treaty which was concluded shortly after the battle of Jaffa, 


278 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY 


[THIERRY - . 


79.—THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD. 

Thierry. 

The occupation of the fortresses by earl John had caused much anxiety to the 
king of England, and he foresaw that his brother, following the example that he 
himself had set him, would sooner or later make common cause between his ambi¬ 
tious designs and the hostile projects of the king of France. These fears soon 
began to distress him to such an extent that, disregarding the oath that he had 
made not to quit the Holy Land whilst there remained a horse for him to feed on, 
he concluded a truce of three years, three months, and three days with the Saracens, 
and set out westward. 

When he arrived off Sicily he suddenly bethought himself that it would be 
dangerous for him to land at any of the ports of southern Gaul, because the greater 
number of the lords of Provence were related to the Marquis of Montferrat, whose 
death he was accused of having caused, and also because the Count of Toulouse, 
Raymond de St. Gilles, who, under the king of Aragon, ruled over all the maritime 
towns situated west of the Rhone, was his personal enemy. Justly fearing some 
ambuscade on their part, instead of crossing the Mediterranean, he entered the 
Adriatic Gulf, after having dismissed the greater part of his suite, in order that he 
might not be recognised. His vessel was attacked by pirates, with whom, after a 
lively engagement, he contrived to make so close a friendship, that he left his own 
ship for one of theirs, which carried him to Yara, on the coast of Sclavonia. He 
went ashore with a Norman baron named Baldwin de Betliune, master Philip and 
master Anselm, his chaplains, some Templars, and some servants. It was necessary 
jo have a safe-conduct from the lord of the province, who unfortunately happened 
p be one of the numerous relations of the Marquis de Montferrat. The king sent 
one of his men to make this request, and commissioned him to offer to the ruler a 
ring set with a large ruby which he had bought in Palestine of some Pisan 
merchants. This ruby, at that time famous, was recognised by the ruler of Yara : 
“ Who are they who have sent thee to ask a free passage of me ?” he inquired of 
the messenger. “ Some pilgrims returning from Jerusalem.”—“ And their names?” 
— f< One is called Baldwin de Bethune, and the other, who offers you this ring, 
Hugh the merchant.” The ruler, examining the ring attentively, did not speak for 
some time, and then suddenly replied, “ Thou dost not speak Vne truth : his name 
is not Hugh, it is King Richard. But, since he wished to honour me with his gifts 
without being acquainted with me, I will not arrest him ; I return him his present, 
and leave him free to depart.” 

Surprised at this incident, which he was far from expecting, Richard immediately 
set out, and no one attempted to stop him. But the ruler of Yara sent to warn his 
brother, the lord of a neighbouring town, that the English king was in the country, 
and would probably pass through his territory. The brother had in his service a 
Norman named Roger, originally from Argenton, whom he immediately commis¬ 
sioned to visit every day all the inns at which pilgrims lodged, and endeavour to 
discover the king of England either by his language or some other token, promising, 
if he succeeded in capturing him, to reward him with the government of half the 
town. The Norman prosecuted the search for several days, going from house to 
house, and, at last, discovered the king. Richard endeavoured for some time to 
conceal who he was, but, driven to an extremity by the Norman’s questions, he 
was, at last, forced to avow himself; thereupon Roger burst into tears, and implored 
him immediately to fly, at the same time offering him his best horse : then he 
returned to his master, and told him that the news of the arrival of the king was 
merely a false report, that he had not found him, but only one of his countrymen 


THIERRY.] 


THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD. 


279 


Baldwin de Bethune, wlio was returning from a pilgrimage. The lord, furious at 
having failed in his object, had Baldwin arrested and kept him in prison. 

Meanwhile, king Richard pursued his flight through the German territory, haring 
for his companions only William de l’Etang, his intimate friend, and a valet who could 
speak the Teutonic language, either being of English birth, or having, from his 
inferior condition, acquired a taste for learning the English language which was 
then exactly similar to the Saxon dialect of Germany, and had nmhing of the 
French tongue either in the words, phrases, or construction. Theytravelled three days 
and three nights without food, almost without knowing where they were, and entered 
the province called in theTudesque tongue Ost-ric or (Est-reich that is to say, tne 
East kingdom. This name was a last relic of the old empire of the Franks, of which 
this country formed the eastern extremity. Ost-nc, or 1 Autriche, as the Fi enc a 
the Normans called it, was a dependency of the Germanic empire, and was governed 
by a lord who bore the title of here-zog or duke ; and unfortunately, this , 
named Leopold, was the same whom Richard had mortally offended in Palestine iy 
tearing down his banner. His residence was at Vienna, on the Danube at which 
place the king and his two companions arrived, worn out with fatigue and hunger 
P Th servant who spoke English went to the town exchange to get the money of 
the country for their gold byzantines. He made a great display before the 
merchants of his gold and his person, adopting a dignified air and the manners of 
IT courtier. The citizens, being suspicious of him, took him before their magistrate 
to discover who he was. He gave himself out for the valet of a rich merchant w o 
was to ai rivc in three days, and on this reply he was liberated When he returned 
to the king’s lodging, he recounted his adventure to him, and advised him to leave 
toe W as sooS as possible ; but Richard wishing 

davs longer During this interval the report of his landing at Yara was spread 
through Austria and duke Leopold, who wished at once to wreak his vengeance on 
the king and enrich himself by the ransom of such a prisoner, sent spies and mou¬ 
lt arms in search of him in all directions. They traversed the country without 
find tog any traces of him ; but one day the same servant, win, had been before 

tested being in the market of the town purchasing provisions some richly 
ai rested, Dei „ . that time wore with their court 

embroidered g loves ; s "« h “ . Ue e He , vas again arrested, and, to force confessions 

dresses, were observed!, his girdla^ire ^ ^ and pointed out the inn 

It « J surrender ^n^kfS £ 

S K prison^where picked soldiers with drawn 

swords guarded him day and* f j-,, gland’s ar rest spread, than the emperor, 

P° "TJo rmanf ulmonedhis vasfal the duke of Austria, to surrender 
or Caesar of all Germa y, ^ ftat none but an emperor had a right to 

his prisoner to hlnl . } assen ’ ted t o this strange reasoning with apparent 

imprison a king. Duke Lt 1 should receive at least a part of the 

willingness, but not from Vienna to Worms, into 

ransom. The king oi hnglai • r p„.|. p-ipe sent a message to 

one of the imperial fortresses, and the emperor,him* ro anhistoriao of the time, 
the king of France, winch was moie^gre_^^ » ^ (he emperor to con- 

than a present of gold or topa . . 1 intreat him to guard it carefully, because, 

gratulate him cordially on his prize, a ■ p succeeded in escaping, 

he said, the world would never be at peace if such d.stu. ber England’s 

Therefore, he proposed to pay a sum equal or even superior 

if fhc emneror would give him into his custody. . . 

to custom, submitted this proposition to an assembly of 







280 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY. 

the lords and bishops of the country, called in the Tudesque language, a diet , a 
word which meant, in its original signification, the people in general, but which 
had by degrees got to be used in a more restricted sense. He made known to the 
diet the motives of the king of France’s request, and justified Richard’s imprison¬ 
ment on the plea of the pretended crime of murder committed by him upon the 
Marquis of Montferrat, the insult offered to the banner of the Duke of Austria, and 
the three years’ truce concluded with the enemies of the faith. For these mis¬ 
deeds the king of England ought, he said, to be declared a capital enemy of the 
empire. The assembly decided that Richard should be judged by it for the crimes 
imputed to him, but refused to surrender him to the king of France. The latter 
did not wait for judgment to be given against the prisoner, but sent an express 
message to inform him that he renounced him as his vassal, defied him, and de¬ 
clared war to the utmost against him. At the same time he made the same offers 
to the Earl of Mortain which he had formerly made to Richard to incite him against 
his father. He promised to ensure to John the possession of Normandy, of Anjou, 
and of Aquitaine, and to aid him in obtaining the kingdom of England ; in return 
he demanded that he should be his faithful ally, and that he should marry that 
same Alice, of whom mention has been before made. Without at that time con¬ 
cluding a positive alliance with king Philip, John commenced intrigues in all the 
countries which were in subjection to his brother ; and, under the pretext that 
Richard was dead, or at least must be considered so, he exacted the oath of fidelity 
from the public officers, and the governors of the fortresses and towns. 

The king of England was informed of these manoeuvres, by some Norman abbots, 
who obtained permission to visit him in his prison, and especially by his old chan¬ 
cellor, William Longchamp, the personal enemy of the Earl of Mortain. Richard 
received him as a friend persecuted for his cause, and employed him in several 
negociations. The day fixed on for the trial of the king arrived ; he appeared as 
an accused man before the Germanic diet assembled at Worms ; all he had to do 
to obtain an acquittal on all points was to promise as his ransom, one hundred 
thousand pounds of silver, and to avow himself a vassal of the emperor. This 
avowal of vassalage, which was a mere formality, was of great importance in the 
eyes of the emperor, on account of his pretensions to the same universal dominion 
as the Csesars of Rome, of whom he called himself the heir, had held. The feudal 
subjection of the kingdom of England to the Germanic Empire was not of a nature 
co be of long duration ; but, nevertheless, the acknowledgement and declaration 
were made with all the pomp and ceremony exacted by.the custom of that age. 

“ King Richard,” says a contemporary, “ divested himself of the kingdom, and 
surrendered it to the emperor, as lord of all the earth, investing him with it by 
means of his hat ; and the emperor returned it to him to hold as a fief of him, on 
condition of an annual tribute of five thousand pounds sterling, and invested him 
with it by means of a double crown of gold.” After this ceremony the German 
emperor, bishops, and lords, promised by oath, on their soul, that the king of 
England should be free on the payment of the hundred thousand pounds : and from 
that day the captivity of Richard was less strict. 

In the meantime the Earl of Mortain, carrying on his intrigues and manoeuvres, 
solicited the justiciaries of England, the archbishop of Rouen, and the barons of 
Normandy, to swear fidelity to him, and to acknowledge him as king ; the greater 
number refused, and the earl, feeling that he was not sufficiently powerful to 
oblige them to accede to his wishes, crossed over to France, and concluded a formal 
treaty with king Philip. He acknowledged himself that king’s vassal and liegeman 
for England, and all the other states of his brother, swore to marry Philip’s sister, 
and to give up to him a considerable portion of Normandy, Tours, Loches, Am- 


THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD. 


2$! 


THIERRY. J 


boise, and Montrichard, as soon as, by his aid, he should have become king of 
England. He further promised to the Count de Blois, a vassal of the king of 
France, the towns of La Chatre, and Vendome. And, finally, he subscribed to the 
same clause against Bichard, which Bichard had more than once subscribed to 
against his father, Henry II. “ And, if my brother Bichard should offer me peace, 
I°will not accept it without the consent of my ally of France, even if my ally 
should have made peace on his own account with my said brother Bichard. 

After the conclusion of this treaty, king Philip crossed the frontiers of Nor¬ 
mandy, with a numerous army \ and earl John had money distributed among such 
of the Gallic tribes as were still free, to engage them to second by an invasion the 
manoeuvres of his partisans in England. This people, oppressed by the Normans, 
gladly enlisted their national hatred in the service of one of the two factions into 
which their enemies were divided ; but, incapable of great efforts out of the little 
country where they obstinately defended their independence, they were of little 
service to king Bichard’s adversaries. These latter, had, also, but little success in 
England, and this determined John to remain near the king of France, and to direct 
all his projects against the coast of Normandy. Although thus exempted from the 
scourge of war, England was not much better off; for she had to submit to enor- 
mous°tributes, levied for the king’s ransom. The royal collectors traversed the 
country in every direction, and drew contributions from all classes of men, clergy 
and laity, Saxons and Normans. All the sums levied in various assessments were 
collected together in London ; and it has been calculated that the total would have 
covered the amount of the ransom, had there not been an enormous deficiency 
caused by the frauds of the men employed. This first levy being insufficient, the 
royal officers commenced a fresh one, making use, say the historians, of ihe plau¬ 
sible term of the king’s ransom, to cover their shameful robberies. 

The king had been now two years in prison ; he was weary of captivity, and sent 
message after message to his officers, and his friends in England, and on the con¬ 
tinent? urging them to free him by paying his ransom. He complained bitterly 
that he was neglected by his people, and that they would not do for him, what he 
himself would have done for any other. He uttered his complaints in a song com¬ 
posed in the Boman dialect of the south, which he preferred to the less polished 

tongue of Normandy, Anjou, and France. , 

«I have many friends, but they give poorly ; it is a shame to them, that, tor 

want of ransom, I have been for two winters a prisoner here. 

« Let my men and my barons, English, Norman, Poitevin, and Gascon be assured, 
that there is no man, however base, whom for want of money, I would suffer to 
remain in prison ; I do not say it as a reproach; but I am still a prisoner.’’ 

Whilst the second collection for the king’s ransom was being made throughout 
England, envoys from the emperor arrived in London, to receive, as on account for 
the sum total, the money that had been already collected ; they ascertained the 
quantity by weight and measure, says an historian of the time, and puo their 
seal on the sacks, which were conveyed as far as the territories of the empire y 
English sailors, at the risk and peril of the king of England. The money came 
safe to the hands of the Caesar of Germany, who sent a third of it to the duke of 
Austria, as his share of the prize ; then another diet was assembled to decide on 
the fate of the pri^ner, whose liberation was fixed for the third week alter 
Christmas, on condition that he should leave a certain numbei of ostages as a 
guarantee for the payment which still remained to be made. Bichard agreed to 
everything, and the emperor, delighted with his easy compliance, was pleased to 
reward him by a gift. He granted to him, by authentic charter, to hold of him as 
a fief, some provinces which he called his, in the style of his chancery, such as 



282 • HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [THIERRY, 

the Viennois, and a portion of the country which in the Roman tongue was called 
Bourgogne, and the towns and territories of Lyon, Arles, Marseille, and Narbonne. 
“ Now it must be understood,” says a contemporary, “ that these lands, given to 
the king by the emperor, contained five archbishoprics, and thirty-three bishoprics; 
and it must also be understood that he had never been able to exercise any sort 
of authority over them, and that the inhabitants had never consented to recognise 
any lord nominated or appointed by him.” 

When the king of France, and his ally, earl John, learnt what had been resolved 
by the imperial diet, they feared they might not have time to execute their designs 
before the king’s liberation ; they therefore sent messengers in great haste to the 
emperor, offering him seventy thousand marks of silver if he would prolong the 
imprisonment of Richard for one year, or, if he preferred it, a thousand pounds of 
silver for each succeeding month of captivity ; or a hundred and fifty thousand 
marks if he would give the prisoner into the custody of the king of France and the 
earl. The emperor, tempted by these dazzling offers, was inclined to break his 
word ; but the members of the diet, who had sworn to keep the engagement, op¬ 
posed any want of faith, and, using all their power, had the captive released towards 
the end of January, 1194. Richard could not direct his steps either towards 
France or Normandy, which was then invaded by the French ; the safest way for 
him was to embark in one of the German ports, and sail straight to England ; but 
it was then the most stormy season ; he was obliged to w r ait more than a month 
at Anvers, and during that time the emperor’s avarice was again tempted ; the 
hope of doubling his profits overcame the fear of displeasing chiefs less powerful 
than himself, and whom, in his character of paramount lord, he had a thousand 
means of silencing. He therefore resolved to seize a second time the prisoner 
whom he had allowed to depart; but the secret of this treachery was not suffici¬ 
ently well kept, and one of the hostages left in the emperor’s hands, found means 
to warn the king. Richard immediately embarked in the galliot of a Norman trader, 
named Alain Tranchemer, and, having thus escaped the men-at-arms sent to take 
him, landed safely at the port of Sandwich. 


80.—DEATH AND CHARACTER OF RICHARD. 

Burke. 

Richard, on his coming to England, found all things in the utmost confusion ; 
but before he attempted to apply a remedy to so obstinate a disease, in order to 
wipe off any degrading ideas which might have arisen from his imprisonment, he 
caused himself to be new-crowned. Then, holding his Court of Great Council at 
Southampton, he made some useful regulations in the distribution of justice. He 
called some great offenders to a strict account. Count John deserved no favour 
and he lay entirely at the king’s mercy, who, by an unparalleled generosity, par¬ 
doned him his multiplied offences, only depriving him of the power of which he 
had made so bad a use. Generosity did not oblige him to forget the hostilities of 
the king of France. But to prosecute the war money was wanting, which new 
taxes and new devices supplied with difficulty and with dishonour. °A11 the mean 
expedients of a necessitous government were exercised on this occasion. All the 
grants which were made on the king’s departure for the Holy Land, were revoked 
on the weak pretence that the purchasers had sufficient recompense whilst they 
held them. Necessity seemed to justify this as well as many other measures that 
were equally violent. The whole revenue of the Crown had been dissipated; means 
to support its dignity must be found, and these means were the least unpopular, 



DEATH AND CHARACTER OF RICHARD. 


283 


BURKE.] 

as most men saw with pleasure the wants of Government fall upon those who had 
started into a sudden greatness by taking advantage of those wants. 

Bichard renewed the war with Philip, which continued, though frequently inter¬ 
rupted by truces, for about five years. In this war Bichard signalised himself by 
that irresistible courage which on all occasions gave him a superiority over the king 
of France. But his revenues were exhausted ; a great scarcity reigned both in 
France and England ; and the irregular manner of carrying on war in those days 
prevented a clear decision in favour of either party. Bichard had still an eye upon 
the Holy Land, which he considered as the only province worthy of his arms ; and 
this continually diverted his thoughts from the steady prosecution of the war in 
France. The Crusade, like a superior orb, moved along with all the particular 
systems of politics at that time, and suspended, accelerated, or put back, all opeia- 
tions, on motives foreign to the things themselves. In this war, it must be 
remarked, that Bichard made a considerable use of the mercenaries who had been 
so serviceable to Henry the Second ; and the king of France, perceiving how much 
his father Lewis had suffered by a want of that advantage, kept on foot a standing 
army in constant pay, which none of his predecessors had done before him, and 
which afterwards for a long time very unaccountably fell into disuse in both king¬ 
doms. 

Whilst this war was carried on by intervals and starts, it came to the ears of 
Bi chard that a nobleman of Limoges had found on his lands a considerable hidden 
treasure. The king, necessitous and rapacious to the last degree, and stimulated 
by the exaggeration and marvellous circumstances which always attend the lepoit 
of such discoveries, immediately sent to demand the treasure, under pretence of the 
rights of seigniory. The Limosia, either because he had really discovered nothing, 
or that he was unwilling to part with so valuable an acquisition, refused to comply 
with the king’s demand, and fortified his castle. Enraged at the disappointment, 
Bichard relinquished the important affairs in which he was engaged, and laid siege 
to this castle with all the eagerness of a man who has his heart set upon a trifle. 
In this siege he received a wound from an arrow, and it proved mortal ; but in t ie 
last as in all the other acts of his life, something truly noble shone out amidst 
the rash and irregular motions of his mind. The castle was taken before he died. 
The man from whom Bichard had received the wound was brought before him 
Beino- asked why he levelled his arrow at the king, he answered with an undaunted 
countenance, “ that the king with his own hand had slain his two brothers ; that 
he thanked God who gave him an opportunity to revenge their deaths, even with 
the certainty of his own.” Bichard., more touched with the magnanimity of the 
man, than offended at the injury he had received, or the boldness of the answer, 
ordered that his life should be spared. He appointed his brother John to the suc¬ 
cession : and with these acts ended a life and reign distinguished by a great variety 
of fertunes in different parts of the world, and crowned with great military glory, 
but without any accession of power to himself, or prosperity to his people, whom 
he entirely neglected, and reduced by his imprudence and misfortunes to no sma 

indigence and distress. . . . , 

In many respects, a striking parallel presents itself between this ancient king o 

England and Charles XII. of Sweden. They were both inordinately desirous of 
war, and rather generals than kings. Both were rather fond of glory, than ambi¬ 
tious of empire. Both of them made and deposed sovereigns. They both earned 
on their wars at a distance from home. They were both made prisoners y a nenc 
and ally. They were both reduced by an adversary inferior m war, but above them 
in the arts of rule. After spending their lives in remote adventures each perished 
at last near home, in enterprises not suited to the splendour of their former exploits. 





234 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [BURKE. 

Both died childless ; and both, by the neglect of their affairs, and the severity of 
their government, gave their subjects provocation and encouragement to revive 
their freedom. In all these respects the two characters were alike ; but Richard 
fell as much short of the Swedish hero in temperance, chastity, and equality of 
mind, as he exceeded him in wit and eloquence. Some of his sayings are the most 
spirited that we find in that time ; and some of his verses remain which, in a bar¬ 
barous age, might have passed for poetry. 


81.—ROBIN HOOD AND SHERWOOD FOREST. 

From “ Old England." 0. Knight. 

The same combination against the power of the Crown which produced the great 
charter of our liberties, relieved the people from many regal oppressions by a charter 
of the forests. We cannot look upon an old forest without thinking of the days 
when men who had been accustomed to the free range of their green woods were 
mulcted or maimed for transgressing the ordinances of their new hunter-kings. 
Our poet Cowper put his imagination in the track of following out the customs of 
the Norman age in his fragment upon Yardley Oak, which was supposed to have 
existed before the Normans : 

“ Thou wast a bauble once; a cup and ball, 

Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay, 

Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin’d 
The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down 
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs 
And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. 

But fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains 
• Beneath thy parent tree mellow’d the soil 

Design’d thy cradle; and a skipping deer, 

With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepared 
The soft receptacle, in which, secure, 

Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.” 

The severity of the old forest laws of England has become a byword, and 
no wonder when we know that with the Conqueror a sovereign’s paternal care 
for his subjects was understood to apply to red deer, not to Saxon men ; 
and that accordingly, of the two, the lives of the former alone were esteem¬ 
ed of any particular value. But it was not the severity merely that was, 
after the Conquest, introduced (whether into the spirit or into the letter of the 
forest laws is immaterial), but also the vast extent of fresh land then afforested, 
and to which such laws were for the first time applied, that gave rise to so much 
opposition and hatred between the Norman conquerors and the Saxon forest in¬ 
habitants ; and that in particular parts of England infused such continuous vigour 
into the struggle commenced at the invasion, long after that struggle had ceased 
elsewhere. The Conqueror is said to have possessed in this country no less than 
sixty-eight forests, and these even were not enough ; so the afforesting process 
went on reign after reign, till the awful shadow of Magna Charta began to pass 
more and more frequently before royal eyes, producing first a check, and then 
a retreat : dis-afforesting then began, and the forest laws gradually underwent a 
mitigating process. But this was the work of the nobility of England, and occu¬ 
pied the said nobility a long time first to determine upon, and then to carry out : 
the people in the interim could not afford to wait, but took the matter to a certain 
extent into their own hands ; free bands roved the woods, laughing at the king’s 
laws, and killing and eating his deer, and living a life of perfect immunity from 



C. KNIGHT.] 


ROBIN HOOD AND SHERWOOD FOREST. 


285 


nunishment partly through bravery and address, and still more through the im¬ 
penetrable character of the woods that covered a large portion of he whoe country 
Tr-onf to flip Tvne Among the more famous o». ttie eaily leaaeis oi such 

men were Adam Bell, Clym of the Clough, and William of Cloudesley, the heroes 

° f KSS which formerly extended for thirty miles northward from 
Nottingham skirting the great north road on both sides, was ancient y divided into 
ThfmefwocI and H gh Forest ; and in one of these alone, the first and smallest 

;p r xzrm 

SheU X odwas e bid Ze of a scarcely interrupted series rf forests through which the 
outlaws roved at pleasure ; when change was esire ei _ called the royal 

forest of Sherwood. The clea g P to that eriod the forest was full of ancient 
toe -thTro U ad f“m Mansfield to Nottingham presented one f “and 

ofVeen woods. The 

which even then may have counted their age ‘V ““*“1^^ 

Welbeck Park. Many of these -"mnXs still pul forth the tender green 
their trunks, but their tops and c < monarch oak 

foliage regularly as the springs come round b ? fc Inch s of the lady of the 

we find the delicate silver-coated stems and ‘ onv But everything wears 

woods ; and beautiful is the contrast and ^ tZ A lLriS.ce of 
a comparatively cultivated aspect. We m - P mightiest 

a natural forest where ^ature always* to be 

growth, may be traced We — P ins t auC e of which Gilpin speaks (“ Forest 

found in such places, the ash y A . germinating, sending down 

Scenery”), rooting in a decayed pai o ^om rends its supporter and nourisher 
its roots, and lifting up its branches 1 1 nd beautiful as that once 

to pieces, and appears itself ; the climbing 

appeared. Above all we miss the rich and tangWun® ri ’ cldy holly and 

honeysuckle, the white and blac. and the foxg i 0 ves with their purple bells; 

the golden furze, the heaths, the • ’ “ , ° j. aor dinarilv great profit and 

the bilberries, which for centuries weie won o )e 1 ^ . t p e e | ders an d willows 

pleasure to the poor people who gathered*« ^ o J e ’ flourished in profusion 

of many a little marshy nook , al ’ ,, t h; ck i y se t trees, of which 

wherever they could find room to S 10 ® . „ t „i e d branches were so 

Camden says, referring to Sherwood, hat their ^ pas3 _„ It need 

twisted together, that they hatdly e themselves from all inroads 

excite little surprise that the outlaws de fo n d them were ml , cU 

upon such a home. The same writer adds, that in ins time 






286 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [C. KNIGHT. 

thinner, but still bred an infinite number of deer and stags with lofty antlers. 
When Robin Hood hunted here, there would be also the roe, the fox, the marten, 
the hare, the coney, as well as the partridge, the quail, the rail, the pheasant, the 
woodcock, the mallard, and the heron, to furnish sport or food. Even the wolf 
himself may have been occasionally found in Sherwood, down to the thirteenth 
century ; in the manor of Mansfield Woodiiouse a parcel of land called Wolf hunt- 
land was held so late as Henry the Sixth’s time by the service of winding a horn to 
frighten away the wolves in the forest of Sherwood. We must add to this imper¬ 
fect sketch of the scene made memorable by Robin Hood’s presence and achieve¬ 
ments, that in another point it would seem to have been expressly marked out by 
nature for such romantic fame. Caverns are found in extraordinary numbers 
through the forest. Those near Nottingham are supposed to have given name both 
to the town and county ; the Saxon word Snodengaham being interpreted to mean 
the Home of Caverns. There are similar excavations in the face of a cliff near the 
Lene, west of Nottingham Castle. Above all, there is a cave traditionally con¬ 
nected with the great archer himself. This is a curious hollow rock in the side of 
a hill near Newstead, known as Robin Hood’s Stable, but more likely from its 
aspect to have been his chapel. It contains several passages and doorways cut in 
the Gothic style, out of the solid rock ; and there are peculiar little hollows in the 
wall, which might have been intended for holy water. 

The life in the forest must indeed have been steeped in joyous excitement. No 
doubt it had its disadvantages. Winter flaws in such a scene would not be plea¬ 
sant. Agues might be apt occasionally to make their appearance. One feels some¬ 
thing of a shivering sensation as we wonder, 

-When they did hear 

The rain and wind heat dark December, how 
In that their pinching cave they could discourse 
The freezing hours away. 

\ et even the rigours of the season might give new zest to the general enjoyment 
of forest life ; we may imagine one of the band singing in some such words as thase 
of Amiens : 

Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me, 

And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird’s throat, 

Come hither, come hither, come hither: 

Here shall he see 
No enemy 

But winter and rouyh weather. 

And that very thought would ensure such enemies, when they did come, a genial 
and manly reception, lout reverse the picture, and what a world of sunshine, and 
green leaves, and flickering lights and shadows breaks in upon us—excitement in 
the chace, whether they followed the deer, or were themselves followed by the 
slieiiff, thiough bush and brake, over bog and quagmire—of enjoyment in their 
shooting and wrestling matches, in their sword-fights, and sword-dances, in their 
visits to all the rustic wakes and feasts of the neighbourhood, where they would be 
received as the most welcome of guests, The variety of the life in the forest must 
have been endless. Now the outlaws would be visited by the wandering minstrels 
coming thither to amuse them with old ballads, and to gather a rich°lxarvest of 
materials for new ones, that should be listened to with the deepest interest and 
delight all England through, not only while the authors recited them, but for cen- 
turns after the very names of such authors were forgotten. The legitimate poet- 



C. KNIGHT.] 


ROBIN HOOD AND SHERWOOD FOREST. 


287 


minstrel would be followed by the humbler gleeman, forming one of a band of re¬ 
vellers in which would be comprised a taborer, a bagpiper, and dancers or tum¬ 
blers, and who, tempted by the well-known liberality of the foresters, would pene- 
trate’the thick’wood to find them. And great would be the applause at their 
humorous dances and accompanying songs, at their balancings and tumblings; 
wonderful almost too wonderful to be produced without the aid of evil spirits, 
would seem their sleight-of-hand tricks. At another time there would be suddenly 
heard echoing through the forest glades the sounds of strange bugles from strange 
hunters Their rich apparel shows them to be of no ordinary rank. How dare 
they then intrude upon the forest king ? Nay, there is not any danger. Are 
there not lady hunters among the company? So their husbands, brothers, 
sons and fathers hunt freely through Sherwood in their company, safe from 
the sudden arrow, aye, though even the hated sheriff himself be among them. 
But there were occasions when the forest would present a much more extra¬ 
ordinary scene than any we have yet referred to. For scores of miles around, 
what preparations are there not made when the words Robin Hood s Fan- 
spread from mouth to mouth, and the time and place of it being held become 
known » Thither would resort all the yeomen and yeomen’s wives of the district, 
each one hoping to get a “Robin Hood’s pennyworth,” as the. well-understood 
Phrase went in some courtepy or hood, in handkerchiefs telling their goodness by 
their weight in hats, boots or shoes, the spoil of some recent campaign, and be¬ 
speaking "their general excellence from the known quality of their recent owners. 
Thither would resort the emissaries of more than one priory and respectable 
monastery to look after some richly illuminated Missal or MS. that they had heard 
“mong the good things of the fair, or to execute the High Cellarer's commis¬ 
sion to purchase any rare spices that might be offered Knightly messengers too 
would not be wanting, coming thither to look after choice weapons, or trinkets, or 
we.Vbtv chains of gold- perhaps even the very men who had been despoiled, and 
whoto^treasures°had contributed so largely to the “ fair,” would be sending to it, 
to purchase silently back some favourite token at a trifling price, hopeless of regam- 
L “t by any other mode. Of course the Jews would flock to Sherwood on such 
occasions from any and all distances. And as the fair proceeded if any quarrels 

bok place between the buyers and sellers, a Jew would be sure to be concerned. 

took place in his heart at the absurd price he was to give for the rich 

bthi vest or the piece of cloth of gold of such rare beauty that the forester was 
measuring with his long bow, generally of his own height, tor a yard, and even then 
m ng +hroe f nc hes between each admeasurement, the Jew would be sure 

t'Z to”th e : price or to be increasing the quantity ; till reminded 

men, by a luxU riant as its bilberries ; how they give a seasoning, as 

toiest. nid g • t ion of life in the forest, and prevented the possibility 

it were, to the genei^l conjunction ot me ^ and ^profitable r» Were recruits 

of its ever being e as f ^ r ad y eil ture in seeking them. They must 

wanted ?—1^ h k c llho od Iho can alone be enlisted into brave Robin’s band, 

be men of maik o applied. In order to prove their courage, lor 

and severe accordingly w “ e 1 ballads it was quite indispensable that they should 
instance, it ^ either in shooting with the bow, or 

tZX btkLg I “with the quarter-staff, or even by rationally beating 

their antagonists ™ hcn “o tnteSrting adventures which are 

recorded in°be°fcmious^ballad S the “ I, tell Geste” as having actually taken place 









HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


28S 


[c. KNIGHT. 


In one part of this poem we find a story of the most interesting character, and told 
with extraordinary spirit, discrimination of character, and dramatic effect. Whilst 
Little John, Scathelock (the Scarlet of a later time), and Much the Miller’s son, 
were one day watching in the forest, they beheld a knight riding along :— 

All dreari then was his semblaunte, 

And lytell was his pride; 

Hys one fote in the sterope stode, 

The other waved besyde. 

Hys hode hangynge over hys eyen two, 

He rode in symple aray; 

A soryer man than he was one 
Rode never in somers day. 

The outlaws courteously accost and surprise him with the information that their 
master has been waiting for him, fasting, three hours ; Robin Hood, it appears, 
having an objection to sit down to dinner till he can satisfy himself he has earned 
it, by finding strangers to sit down with him—and pay the bill. Having “ washed,” 
they dine :— 

Brede and wyne they had ynough, 

And nombles [entrails] of the deer; 

Swannes and fesauntes they had full good, 

And foules of the revere : 

There fayled never so lytell a bj r rde 
That ever was bred on brere. 

After dinner the Knight thanks his host for his entertainment, but Robin hints 
that thanks are not enough. The Knight replies that he has nothing in his coffers 
that he can for shame offer—that, in short, his whole stock consists of ten shillings. 
Upon this Robin bids Little John examine the coffers to see if the statement be 
true (a favourite mode with Robin of judging of the character of his visitors), and 
informs the Knight at the same time that if he really have no more, more he will 
lend him. 

“ What tydynge, Johan ?”—sayd Robyn: 

“ Syr, the Knyght is trewe enough.” 

The great outlaw is now evidently interested ; and, with mingled delicacy and 
frankness, inquiries as to the cause of the Knight’s low estate, fearing that it im¬ 
plies some wrong doing on his part. It comes out at last that his son has killed a 
“Knyght of Lancastshyre” in the tournament, and that, to defend him “in his 
right,” he has sold all his own goods, and pledged his lands unto the Abbot of St. 
Mary’s, York ; the day is now nearly arrived, and he is not merely unable to redeem 
them before too late, but well nigh penniless into the bargain :— 

“ What is the sorame ? ” sayd Robyn; 

“ Trouthe then tell thou me.” 

“ Syr,” he sayd, “ foure liondred pounde, 

The Abbot tolde it to me.” 

“ Now, and thou lese thy londe,” sayd Robin, 

“ What shall fall of the?” 

“ Hastely I wyll me buske,” sayde the Knyght 
“ Over the salt see; 

“ And se where Cryst was quyeke and deed 
On the mount of Calvart. 

Farewell, frende, and have good day, 

It may noo better be-” 



C. KNIGHT.] 


ROBIN HOOD AND SHERWOOD FOREST. 


289 


Tears fell out of liis eyen two, 

He wolde have gone his waye— 

“ Farewell, frendes, and have good day ; 
I ne have more to pay.” 

“ Where he thy friends ?” sayde Robyn. 

“ Syr, never one wyll me know ; 
Whyle I was ryche enow at home, 

Grete host then wolde they blowe, 


“ And now they renne awaye fro me, 
As hestes on a rowe; 

They take no more heed of me 
, hen they me never sawe.” 


For rutlie then wepte Lytell Johan, 

Scathelocke and Much in fere [in companyj, 

Full of the best wyne,” sayd Robyn, 

“ For here is a symple chere.” 

Before many hours the knight was pursuing his way with a full pocket and a full 
heart to redeem his lands. We must follow him to York. The day Ox payment 
has arrived. The chief officers of the Abbey are in a state of high excitement, on 
account of the value of the estates that will be theirs at nightfall if the knight comes 
not with the redemption money. The Abbot cannot repress his anticipations: 


“ But he come this ylke day, 

Dysheryte shall he be.” 

The Prior endeavours to befriend the absent knight, but is answered impatiently 

“Thou arte euer in my berde,” sayde the Abbot, 

“ By God and Saynt Richarde.” 

And then bursts in a “ fat-headed monk,” the High Cellarer, with the exulting 
exclamation 

“ He is dede or hanged,” sayd the monke, 

“ By God that bought me dere; 

And we shall have to spende in this place 
Foure hondred pounde by yere.” 

To make all sure, the Abbot has managed to have the assistance of the High 
justicer of England on the occasion by the usual mode of persuasion, a bribe ; and 
is ust beginning to receive his congratulations when the knight arrives at the 
gate. But he appears in “ symple wedes,” and the alarm raised by his appealance 

soon subsides as he speaks: 

“Do gladly, Syr Abbot,” sayd the Knyglit; 

“ I am come to holde my day.” 

The fyrst word the Abbot spoke,— 

“ Hast thou brought my pay?” 

“ Not one peny,” sayde the Knyglit, 

“ By God that maked me.” 

“ Thou art a shrewed dettour,” sayd the Abbot; 

“Syr Justyce, drynke to me." 

The knight tries to move his pity, but in vain ; and after somefarther 
between him and the Abbot, conceived and expressed m the finest diamatic J t 
thetiuth comes out in answer to a proposition from the Justice that the Abbot 









290 half-hours of ENGLISH HISTORY. [C. KNIGHT. 

shall give two hundred pounds more to keep the land in peace; the knight then 
suddenly astounds the whole party by producing the four hundred pounds. 

“ Have here thy golde, Syr Abbot,” sayd the Knyght, 

“ Which that thou lentest me ; 

Haddest thou ben curteys at my comynge, 

Rewarde sholdest thou have be.” 

The Abbot sat styll, and ete no more 
For all his ryall [royal] chere ; 

He cast his hede on his sholder, 

And fast began to stare. 

Take [give] me my golde agayne,” sayd the Abbot, 

“ Syr Justyce, that I toke the.” 

“Not a peny,” said the Justyce, . 

“ By God that dyed on a tree.” 

A twelvemonth afterwards, and on the very day that the Knight has fixed for 
repaying Robin Hood, a magnificent procession of ecclesiastics and ecclesiastical 
retainers is passing through the forest; and being stopped by the outlaws, who 
should be at the head of the whole but our friend the fat-headed monk, the High 
Cellarer of St. Mary, York < Now Robin Hood’s security, the only one that he 
would take from the Knight, had been that of the Virgin—what more natural than 
that he should think the High Cellarer of the Virgin’s own house at York had 
come to pay him his four hundred pounds ! It is in vain the holy man denies 
that he has come for any such purpose. At last, driven to his shifts, he ventures 
a falsehood when the actual state of his coffers is inquired into. His return, in 
official language, is twenty marks. Robin is very reasonable, and says, if there 
really be no more, not a penny of it will be meddled with. 

Lytell Johan spread his man tell downe 

t 

As he had done before, 

And he tolde out of the monkes male 

Eyght hundreth pounde and more. 

No wonder that Robin exclaims— 

Monk, what told I thee ? 

Our Lady is the trewest woman 
That ever yet founde I me. 

Anon a second, and to archer eyes still more attractive pageant, appears. It is 
the good and grateful Knight at the head of a hundred men clothed in white and 
red, and bearing as a present to the foresters a hundred bows of a quality to delight 
even such connoisseurs in the weapon, with a hundred sheaves of arrows, with heads 
burnished full bright, every arrow an ell long, y-dight with peacock plumes, and 
y-nocked with silver. The Knight had been detained on his way ; the sun was 
down ; the hour of payment had passed when he arrived at the trysting-tree. His 
excuse was soon made to the generous outlaw. He had stayed to help a poor 
yeoman who was suffering oppression. The debt was forgiven ; the monks had 
paid it doubly. 

The ballads of Robin Hood which, century after century, followed the “ Lytell 
Geste” are, at any rate, evidences of the deep hold which this story of wild adven- 
ture, and of the justice of the strong hand, long retained upon the popular mind. 


BURKE.] 


JOHN AND ARTHUR. 


29 i 


82.—JOHN AND ARTHUR. 


Burke. 




Richard dying without lawful issue, the succession to his dominions again be¬ 
came dubious. They consisted of various territories, governed by various rules of 
descent, and all of them uncertain. There were two competitors ; the first was 
prince John, youngest son of Henry II. ; the other was Arthur, son of Constance of 
Bretagne, by Geoffrey, the third son of that monarch. If the right of consan¬ 
guinity were only considered, the title of John to the whole succession had been 
indisputable. If the right of representation had then prevailed, which now univer¬ 
sally prevails, Arthur, as standing in the place of his father Geoffrey, had a solid 
claim. About Brittany there was no dispute. Anjou, Poitou, Touraine, and 
Guienne, declared in favour of Arthur, on the principle of representation. Nor¬ 
mandy was entirely for John. In England the point of law had never been entirely 
settled, but it seemed rather inclined to the side of consanguinity. Therefore in 
England, where this point was dubious at best, the claim of Arthur, an infant and 
% stranger, had little force against the pretensions of John, declared heir by the 
will of the late king, supported by his armies, possessed of his treasures, and at 
the head of a powerful party. He secured in his interests Hubert, Archbishop of 
Canterbury, and Glanville, the chief Justiciary ; and by them the body of the eccle¬ 
siastics and the law. It is remarkable also, that he paid court to the cities and 
boroughs, whicl. is the first instance of that policy ; but several of these communi¬ 
ties now happily began to merge from their slavery, and, taking advantage of the 
necessities and confusion of the late reign, increased in wealth and consequence 
and had then first attained a free and regular form of administration. The town, 
new to power, declared heartily, in favour of a prince, who was willing to allow that 
their declaration could confer a right. The nobility, who saw themselves beset by 
the church, the law, and the burghers, had taken no measures, nor even a resolu¬ 
tion ; and therefore had nothing left but to concur in acknowledging the title of 
John, whom they knew and hated. But though they were not able to exclude him 
from^the succession, they had strength enough to oblige him to a solemn promise 
of restoring those liberties and franchises, which they had always claimed, without 
havino- ever enjoyed, or even perfectly understood. The clergy also took advantage 
of the badness of his title to establish one altogether as ill-founded. Hubert, 
Archbishop of Canterbury, in the speech which-he delivered at the king’s corona¬ 
tion publicly affirmed, that the crown of England was-of right elective. He drew 
his examples in support of this doctrine, not from the histories of the ancient Saxon 
kin^s although a species of election within a certain family had then frequently 
prevailed but° from the history of the first kings of the Jews ; without doubt in 
order to revive those pretensions, which the clergy first set up in the election of 
Stephen and which they had since been obliged to conceal, but Had not entirely 
forgotten John accepted a sovereignty weakened in the very act by which he 
acquired it; but he submitted to the times. He came to the throne at the age of 
thirty-two. He had entered early into business, and had been often involved in 
difficult and arduous enterprises, in which he experienced a variety of men and 
fortunes His father, whilst he was very young, had sent him into Ireland, which 
kingdom was destined for his portion, in order to habituate that people to then- 
future sovereign, and to give the young prince an opportunity of conciliating the 
favour of his new subjects. But he gave on this occasion no good omens of capa¬ 
city for government. Full of the insolent levity of a young man of high rank 
without education, and surrounded with others equally unpractised, he insulted the 
Irish chiefs; and ridiculing their uncouth garb and manncis, lie laised such a dis- 







292 


HALF-HOURS CF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[burke. 


affection to the English government, and so much opposition to it, as all the 
wisdom of his father’s best officers and counsellors was hardly able to overcome. 
In the decline of his father’s life, he joined in the rebellion of his brothers, with so 
much more guilt, as with more ingratitude and hypocrisy. During the reign of 
Bichard he was the perpetual author of seditions and tumults ; and yet was par¬ 
doned, and even favoured by that prince to his death, when he very unaccountably 
appointed him heir to all his dominions. 

It was of the utmost moment to John, who had no solid title, to conciliate the 
favour of all the world. Yet one of his first steps, whilst his power still remained 
dubious and unsettled, was, on pretence of consanguinity, to divorce his wife Avisa, 
with whom he had lived many years, and to marry Isabella of Angoulesme, a woman 
of extraordinary beauty, but who had been betrothed to Hugh, count of Marche ; 
thus disgusting at once the powerful friends of his divorced wife, and those of the 
Earl of Marche, whom he had so sensibly wronged. 

The king of France, Philip Augustus, saw with pleasure these proceedings of 
John, as he had before rejoiced at the dispute about the succession. He had been 
al ways employed, and sometimes with success, to reduce the English power, through 
the reigns of one very able, and one very warlike prince. He had greater advan¬ 
tages in this conjuncture, and a prince of quite another character now to contend 
with. He was therefore not long without choosing his part ; and whilst he secretly 
encouraged the count of Marche, already stimulated by his private wrongs, he 
openly supported the claim of Arthur to the dutchies of Anjou and Touraine. It 
was the character of this prince readily to lay aside, and as readily to reassume, his 
enterprises, as his affairs demanded. He saw that he had declared himself too 
rashly, and that he was in danger of being assaulted upon every side. He saw it 
was necessary to break an alliance,which the nice circumstances and timid character 
of John would enable him to do. In fact, John was at this time united in a close 
alliance with the Emperor and the earl of Flanders ; and these princes were en¬ 
gaged in a war with France. He had then a most favourable opportunity to 
establish all his claims, and at the same time to put the king of France out of a 
condition to question them ever again. But he suffered himself to be over-reached 
by the artifices of Philip ; he consented to a treaty of peace, by which he received 
an empty acknowledgement of his right to the disputed territories ; and in return 
for which acknowledgment he renounced his alliance with the Emperor. By this 
act he at once strengthened his enemy, gave up his ally, and lowered his character 
with his subjects, and with all the world. 

This treaty was hardly signed when the ill consequences of his conduct became 
evident. The earl of Marche and Arthur immediately renewed their claims and 
hostilities, under the protection of the king of France, who made a strong diversion 
by invading Normandy. At the commencement of these motions, John, by virtue 
of a prerogative hitherto undisputed, summoned his English barons to attend him 
into France ; but instead of a compliance with his orders, he was surprised with a 
solemn demand of their ancient liberties. It is astonishing that the barons should 
at that time have ventured on a resolution of such dangerous importance, as they 
had provided no sort of means to support them. But the history of those times 
furnishes many instances of the like want of design in the most momentous affairs • 
and shews, that it is in vain to look for political causes for the actions of men 
who were most commonly directed by a brute caprice, and were for the greater part 
destitute of any fixed principles of obedience or resistance. The king, sensible of 
the weakness of his barons, fell upon some of their castles with such timely vigour, 
and treated those whom he had reduced with so much severity, that the rest im¬ 
mediately and abjectly submitted. He levied a severe tax upon their fiefs ; and 


BURKE.] JOHN AND ARTHUR. 293 

thinking himself more strengthened by this treasure, than the forced service of his 
barons, he excused the personal attendance of most of them, and passing into Nor¬ 
mandy, he raised an army there. He found that his enemies had united their 
forces, and invested the castle of Mirabel, a place of importance, in which his 
mother, from whom he derived his title to Guienne, was besieged. He flew to the 
relief of this place with the spirit of a greater character, and the success was ans¬ 
werable. The Breton and Poictouvin army was defeated ; his mother was freed ; 
and the young duke of Brittany and his sister were made prisoners. The latter 
he sent into England, to be confined in the castle of Bristol ; the former he carried 
with him to Rouen. The good fortune of John now seemed to be at its highest 
point; but it was exalted on a precipice ; and this great victory proved the occa¬ 
sion of all the evils which affected his life. 

John was not of a character to resist the temptation of having the life of his 
rival in his bands. All historians are as fully agreed that he murdered his nephew, 
as they differ in the means by which he accomplished that crime. But the report 
was soon spread abroad, variously heightened in the circumstances by the obscurity 
of the fact, which left all men at liberty to imagine and invent ; and excited all 
those sentiments of pity and indignation, which a very young prince of great hopes, 
cruelly murdered by his uncle, naturally inspire. Philip had never missed an 
occasion of endeavouring to ruin the king of England ; and having now acquired an 
opportunity of accomplishing that by justice, which he had in vain sought by 
ambition, he filled every place with complaints of the cruelty of John, whom as a 
vassal to the crown of France, the king accused of the murder of another vassal, 
and summoned him to Paris to be tried by his peers. It was by no means con¬ 
sistent either with the dignity or safety of John to appear to this summons. He 
had the argument of kings to justify what he had done. But as in all great crimes 
there is something of a latent weakness, and in a vicious cause something mateiial 
is ever neglected, John, satisfied with removing his rival, took no thought about his 
enemy ; but whilst he saw himself sentenced for non-appearance in the Court of 
Peers / whilst he saw the king of France entering Normandy with a vast army, in 
consequence of this sentence, and place after place, castle after castle, falling before 
him, he passed his time at Rouen in the profoundest tranquillity ; indulging him¬ 
self ? in indolent amusements, and satisfied with vain tlireatenings and boasts, which 
only added greater shame to his inactivity. The English barons, who had attended 
him in this expedition, disaffected from the beginning, and now wearied with being 
so long witnesses to the ignominy of their sovereign, letiicd to their own countiy, 
and there spread the report of his unaccountable sloth and cowardice. John 
quickly followed them ; and returning to his kingdom, polluted with the charge of 
so heavy a crime, and disgraced by so many follies, instead of aiming by popular 
acts to re-establish his character, he exacted a seventh of their moveables from 
the barons, on pretence that they had deserted his service. He laid the same im¬ 
position on the clergy, without giving himself the trouble of seeking for a pretext, 
lie made no proper use of these great supplies ; but saw the great city of Rouen, 
always faithful to its sovereigns, and now exerting the most strenuous efforts in his 
favour, obliged at length to surrender, without the least attempt to lelieve it. dhus 
the whole dutchy of Normandy, originally acquired by his ancestors, and the souice 
from which the greatness of his family had been derived, after being supported 
against all shocks for three hundred years, was torn for ever from the stock of 
Rollo, and re-united to the crown of France. Immediately all the rest of the pio- 
vinces which he held on the Continent, except a part of Guienne, despaiiing of his 
protection, and abhorring his government, threw themselves into the hands of 

Philip, 









£94 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPE2S. 


83.—ARTHUR AND HUBERT. 
Scene I. John — Hubert. 


Shaksperk. 


K. John. Come hither, Hubert. 0 my gentle Hubert, 
We owe thee much ; within this wall of flesh 
There is a soul counts thee her creditor, 

And with advantage means to pay thy love : 

And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath 
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. 

Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,— 

But I will fit it with some better tune. 

By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham’d 
To say what good respect I have of thee. 

Hub. I am much bounden to your majesty. 

K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet: 
But thou shalt have : and creep time ne’er so slow, 

Yet it shall come for me to do thee good. 

I had a thing to say,—but let it go : 

The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, 

Attended with the pleasures of the world, 

Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds, 

To give me audience :—If the midnight bell 
Hid, -with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, 

Sound on into the drowsy race of night ; 

If this same were a churchyard where we stand, 

And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs 
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy, 

Had bak’d thy blood, and made it heavy-thick, 

(Which, else, runs tickling up and down the veins, 

Making that idiot, laughter, keep men’s eyes, 

And strain their cheeks to idle merriment, 

A passion hateful to my purpose ;) 

Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, 

Hear me without thine ears, and make reply 
Without a tongue, using conceit alone, 

Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words ; 

Then, in despite of brooded watchful day, 

I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts : 

But ah, I will not:—Yet I love thee well; 

And, by my troth, I think thou lov’st me well. 

Hub. So well, that what you bid me undertake, 

Though that my death were adjunct to my act, 

By heaven, I would do it. 

K. John. Do not I know thou wouldst ? 

Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye 
On yon young boy ; I ’ll tell thee what, my friend, 

He is a very serpent in my way; 

And wheresoe’er this foot of mine doth tread 
He lies before me : Dost thou understand me 1 
Thou art his keeper. 


SHAKSPERE.j 


ARTHUR AND HUBERT. 


295 


Hub. And I’ll keep him so, 

That he shall not offend your majesty. 

K. John. Death. 

Hub. My lord 1 

K. John. A grave. 

ji v h He shall not live. 

K. John. Enough 

I could be merry now : Hubert, I love thee. 

Well, I’ll not say what I intend for thee : 

Remember 

Scene II .—Hubert and Two Attendants. 

Hub. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand 
Within the arras : when I strike my foot 
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, 

And bind the boy, which you shall find with me, 

Fast to the chair : be heedful: hence, and watch. 

First Attend. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. 

Hub. Uncleanly scruples ! Fear not you : look to’t— Exeunt Attend. 
Young lad, come forth ; I have to say with you. 

Enter Arthur. 


Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. 

Hllb Good morrow, little prince. 

Arth. As little prince (having so great a title 
To be more prince) as may be.—You are sad. 

Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. 

Arth. Mer °y on me ! 

Metbiuks, nobody should be sad but I . 

Yet, I remember, when I was in France. 

Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, 

Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, 

So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, 

I should be as merry as the day is long , 

And so I would be here, but that I doubt 
My uncle practises more harm to me : 

He is afraid of me, and I of him : 

Is it my fault that I was Geffrey’s son ? 

No, indeed is’t not; And I would to heaven 
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. 

Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate 
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead : 

Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. 

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert 1 you look pale to-day 
In sooth, I would you were a little sick,. 

That I might sit all night, and watch with you 
I warrant I love you more than you do me. 

Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom. 
Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How nou, 


[A side 


foolish rheum 
[Aside, 


Turning dispiteous torture out of door ! 

I must be brief ; lest resolution drop 
Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears. 









296 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE 


Can you not read it ? is it not fair writ 
Arth. Too fairly Hubert, for so foul effect : 

Must you with hot irons bum out both mine eyes ? 

Hub. Young boy, I must. 

Arth. And will you ? 

Hub. And I will. 

Arth. Have you the heart ? When your head did but ache, 

I knit my hand-kercher about your brows, 

(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,) 

And I did never ask it you again : 

And with my hand at midnight held your head ; 

And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, 

Still and anon cheer’d up the heavy time ; 

Saying, What lack you ? and, Where lies your grief ? 

Or, What good love may I perform for you ? 

Many a poor man’s son would have lain still, 

And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you ; 

But you at your sick service had a prince. 

Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, 

And call it cunning ; do, an if you will : 

If heaven be pleas’d that you must use me ill, 

Why, then you must,—Will you put out mine eyes ? 

These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, 

So much as frown on you ? 

Hub. I have sworn to do it 

And with hot irons must I burn them out. 

Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it ! 

The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, 

Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears, 

And quench his fiery indignation, 

Even in the matter of mine innocence ; 

Nay, after that, consume away in rust, 

But for containing fire to harm mine eye. 

Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer’d iron ? 

An if an angel should nave come to me, 

And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes, 

I would not have believ’d him. No tongue but Hubert’s— 

Hub. Come forth. [Stands. 

Re-enter Attendants , with Cords , Irons , c6c. 

Do as I bid you do. 

Arth. 0, save me, Hubert, save me ! my eyes are out, 

Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. 

Huh. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. 

Arth. Alas, what need you be so boist’rous-rough ? 

I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. 

For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound ! 

Nay, hear me, Hubert ! drive these men away 
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb 
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, 

Nor look upon the iron angerly: 


ARTHUR AND HUBERT. 


297 


"•1 —-- 

Thrust hut these men away, and Ill forgive you, 

Whatever torment you do put me to. 

Hub. Go, stand within ; let me alone with him. 

First Attend. I am best pleas’d to be from such a deed. 

[Exeunt Attendants. 

Arth. Alas ! I then have chid away my friend ; 

He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart:— 

Let him come back, that his compassion may 
Give life to yours. 

Fub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. 

Arth. Is there no remedy 1 

Fub None, but to lose your eyes, 

Arth. 0 heaven !—that there were but a mote in yours, 

A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, 

Any annoyance in that precious sense ! 

Then, feeling what small things are boist’rous there, 

Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. 

Hub. Is this your promise ? go to, hold your tongue. 

Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues 
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes: 

Let me not hold my tongue ! let me not, Hubert ! 

Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, 

So I may keep mine eyes. 0, spare mine eyes ; 

Though to no use, but still to look on you ! 

Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold, 

And would not harm me. 

F u b. I can heat it, boy. 

Arth. No, in good sooth ; the fire is dead with grief, 

Being create for comfort, to be usd 
In undeserv’d extremes : See else yourself ! 

There is no malice in this burning coal ; 

The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, 

And strew’d repentant ashes on his head.. 

Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. 

Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush, 

And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert. 

Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes ; 

And, like a dog that is compell’d to fight, 

Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. 

All things that you should use to do me wrong 

Deny their office ; only you do lack 

That mercy which fierce fire and iron extend, 

Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. 

Huh. Well, see to live ; I will not touch thine eyes 
Bor all the treasure that thine uncle owes : 

Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy, 

With this same very iron to burn them out 

Arth. O, now you look like Hubert! all this w l e 

You were disguised. 

Fub Peace : no more. Adieu ; 

Your uncle must not know but you are dead . 

I’ll fill these dogged spies with false reports, 












298 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE. 


And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure, 

That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, 

Will not offend thee. 

Arth. 0 heaven !—I thank you, Hubert. 

Hub. Silence ; no more : Go closely in with me. 

Much danger do I undergo for thee. 

Scene III.— John and Hubert. 

Hub. My lord, they say five moons were seen to-nighc 
Hour fixed ; and the fifth did whirl about 
The other four in wondrous motion. 

K. John. Five moons ? 

Hub. Old men, and beldames, in the streets 

Do prophesy upon it dangerously : 

Young Arthur’s death is common in their mouths : 

And when they talk of him, they shake their heads, 

And whisper one another in the ear; 

And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer’s wrist ; 

While he that hears makes fearful action, 

With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. 

I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus,. 

The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, 

With open mouth swallowing a tailor’s news ; 

Who, with his shears and measure in his hand, 

Standing on slippers, (which his nimble haste 
Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet,) 

Told of a many thousand warlike French, 

That were embattled and rank’d in Kent: 

Another lean unwash’d artificer 

Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur’s death. 

K. John. Why seek’st thou to possess me with these fears ? 
Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur’s death ? 

Thy hand hath murther’d him : I had a mighty cause 
To wish him dead, but thou had’st none to kill him. 

Hub. None had, my lord ! why, did you not provoke me ? 
K. John. It is the curse of kings to be attended 
By slaves that take their humours for a warrant 
To break within the bloody house of life ; 

And, on the winking of authority, 

To understand a law ; to know the meaning 
Of dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frowns 
More upon humour than advis’d respect. 

Hub. Here is your hand and seal for what I did. 

K. John. O, when the last account ’twixt heaven and earth 
Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal 
Witness against us to damnation 
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds 
Makes ill deeds done ! Iladst thou not been by, 

A fellow by the hand of nature mark’d, 

Quoted, and sign’d, to do a deed of shame, 

This murther had not come into my mind 
But, taking note of thy abhorr’d aspect, 


Exeunt. 




SHAKSPERE. HUBERT AND ARTHUR. 

Finding tliee fit for bloody villainy, 

Apt, liable, to be employ’d in danger, 

I faintly broke with thee of Arthur’s death 
And thou, to be endeared to a king, 

Made it no conscience to destroy a prince. 

Hub. My lord.— 

K. John . Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a pause 
When I spake darkly what I purposed, 

Or turn’d an eye of doubt upon my face, 

As bid me tell my tale in express words, 

Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off, 

And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me : 

But thou didst understand me by my signs, 

And didst in signs again parley with sin ; 

Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent, 

And, consequently, thy rude hand to act 

The deed, which both our tongues held vile to name. 

Out of my sight, and never see me more ! 

My nobles leave me ; and my state is brav’d, 

Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers : 

Nay, in the body of this fleshy land, 

This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath, 

Hostility and civil tumult reigns 

Between my conscience and my cousin’s death. 

Hub. Arm you against your other enemies, 

I ’ll make a peace between your soul and you. 

Young Arthur is alive : This hand of mine 
Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, 

Not painted with the crimson spots of blood. 

Within this bosom never enter’d yet 

The dreadful motion of a murtherous thought; 

And you have slander’d nature in my form, 

Which, howsoever rude exteriorly, 

Is yet the cover of a fairer mind 
Than to be butcher of an innocent child. 

K. John. Doth Arthur live ? 0, haste thee to the peers, 
Throw this report on their incensed rage, 

And make them tame to their obedience ! 

Forgive the comment that my passion made 
Upon thy feature ; for my rage was blind, 

And foul imaginary eyes of blood 
Presented thee more hideous than thou ait. 

O, answer not : but to my closet biing 
The angry lords, with all expedient haste ; 

I conjure thee but slowly : run more fast. 

Scene IY.— Entev Avthuv , on the, "Walls. 

Arth. The wall is high ; and yet will I leap down 
Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not ! 

There’s few, or none, do know me ; if the} did. 

This ship-boy’s semblance hath disguis’d me quite. 

I am afraid ; and yet I ’ll venture it. 


29f> 


Exeunt 






300 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORIC. 


[SHAKSPERE, 


If I get down, and do not break my limbs, 

I ’ll find a thousand shifts to get away: 

As good to die and go, as die and stay. Leaps down. 

0 me ! my uncle’s spirit is in these stones :— 

Heaven take my soul, an England keep my bones ! Dies. 


84. — SHAKSPERE’S ARTHUR. C. Knight. 

From the 1 National Shakspere.’ 

It is unquestionably to be deplored that the greatest writers of imagination have 
sometimes embodied events not only unsupported by the facts of history, but utterly 
opposed to them. We are not speaking of those deviations from the actual suc¬ 
cession of events,—those omissions of minor particulars,—those groupings of cha¬ 
racters who were really never brought together,—which the poet knowingly abandons 
himself to, that he may accomplish the great purposes of his art, the first of which, 
in a drama especially, is unity of action. Such a license has Shakspere taken in 
‘King John;’ and who can doubt that, poetically, he was right ? But there is a 
limit even to the mastery of the poet, when he is dealing with the broad truths of 
history ; for the poetical truth would be destroyed if the historical truth were 
utterly disregarded. For example, if the grand scenes between Arthur and Hubert, 
and between Hubert and John, were entirely contradicted by the truth of history, 
there would be an abatement even of the irresistible power of these matchless 
scenes. Had the proper historians led us to believe that no attempt was made to 
deprive Arthur of his sight—that his death was not the result of the dark suspi¬ 
cions and cowardly fears of his uncle—that the manner of his death was so clear 
that he who held him captive was absolved from all suspicion of treachery,—then 
the poet would indeed have left an impression on the mind which even the historical 
truth could with difficulty have overcome ; but he would not have left that com¬ 
plete and overwhelming impression of the reality of his scenes,—he could not have 
produced our implicit belief in the sad story, as he tells it, of Arthur of Brittany, 
—he could not have rendered it impossible for any one to recur to that story, who 
has read this Act of ‘King John,’ and not think of the dark prison where the iron 
was hot and the executioner ready, but where nature, speaking in words such as 
none but the greatest poet of nature could have furnished, made the fire and the 
iron “ deny their office,” and the executioner leave the poor boy, for a while, to 
“ sleep doubtless and secure.” Fortunate is it that we have no records to hold up 
which should say that Shakspere built this immortal scene upon a rotten founda¬ 
tion. The story, as told by Holinshed, is deeply interesting ; and we cannot read 
it without feeling how skilfully the poet has followed it:— 

“ It is said that King John caused his nephew Arthur to be brought before him 
at Falaise, and there went about to persuade him all that he could to forsake his 
friendship and alliance with the French king, and to lean and stick to him his 
natural uncle. But Arthur, like one that wanted good counsel, and abounding too 
much in his own wilful opinion, made a presumptuous answer, not only denying so 
to do, but also commanding King John to restore unto him the realms of England, 
with all. those other lands and possessions which King Richard had in his hand at the 
hour of his death. For sitli the same appertaineth to him by right of inheritance, 
he assured him, except restitution were made the sooner, he should not long con¬ 
tinue quiet. King John, being sore moved by such words thus uttered by his 
nephew, appointed (as before is said) that he should be strictly kept in prison, as 
first in Falaise, and after at Roan, within the new castle there. 



C. KNIGHT.] 


SHAKSPERE’S ARTHUR. 


01 


« Shortly after King John coming over into England caused himself to be crowned 
a cram at Canterbury, by the hands of Hubert, the archbishop there, on the 
fourteenth of April, and then went bach again into Normandy, where, immediately 
upon his arrival, a rumour was spread through all France, of the death of his 
nephew Arthur. True it is that great suit was made to have Arthur set at liberty, 
as well by the French king, as by William de Miches, a valiant baron of Poitou, 
and divers other noblemen of the Britains, who, when they could not prevail in 
their suit, they banded themselves together, and joining m confederacy with Robert 
Earl of Alanson, the Viscount Beaumont, William de Fulgiers, and other, they 
began to levy sharp wars against King John in divers places, insomuch (as it was 
thought) that so long as Arthur lived, there would be no quiet in those parts ; 
whereupon it was reported, that King John, through persuasion of his counsellors, 
appointed certain persons to go into Falaise, where Arthur was kept in puson, 
under the charge of Hubert de Burgh, and there to put out the young gentleman s 

^ B ut through such resistance as he made against one of the tormentors that 
came to execute the king’s command (for the other rather forsook their prince and 
country, than they would consent to obey the king’s authority therein) and such 
lamentable words as he uttered, Hubert de Burgli did preserve him from that 
injury not doubting but rather to have thanks than displeasure at the king s hands 
fol delivering him of such infamy as would have redounded unto his highness, if 
the young gentleman had been so cruelly dealt withal. For he considered, that ing 
John had resolved upon this point only in his heat and fury (which moveth men to 
undertake many an Inconvenient enterprise, unbeseeming the person of a common 
man much more reproachful to a prince, all men in that mood being more foolish 
and furious, and prone to accomplish the perverse conceits of their ill possessed 

hearts ; as one saith right well, 

___pronus in iarm 

Stultorum est animus, facile excandescit et audet 
Omne seel us, quoties concepta bile tumescit), 

l afterwards upon better advisement, he would both repent himself so to 
and that afterwa , P m smaU thank that should see it put m execution. 

H wbSrtD^atisfy his mind for the time, and to stay the rage of the Britains, he 
Howbeit,to satisi} , the CO untry, that the king’s commandment 

caused it to he bruited a through sorrow and grief, was departed out of 

was slot of"fifteen days this rumour incessantly ran through both 

^ 1S 1 i f 'Fncrland ard France and there was ringing for him through towns 
thG i funerals. It was also bruited, that his body was 

and villa & es, as < _ Andrews of the Cisteaux order, 

buried m the monastery o . . cified but rather kindled more vehe- 

re ™ ige ° f t,,eir sovereigu ’ s 
mently to woik c i simiify abroad again that Arthm was as yet 

death, there was no remedy “to^signdy ^ ^ of ^ this matter , he 

living, and in healt ■ commandment was not executed, sith there 

was nothing displeased foi that:‘ 1 word that Ue Bho „ld not find 

were divers of his captains w 1 tt 1 nep hew. For if it chanced 

knights to keep his castles if he dcah so cniel y i adversaries, they 

any of them to be taken by the King manner in vcry dce d of 

should be sure to taste of the li P- t Nevertheless certain it is, that 

the end of this Arthur Falaise unto the castle or tower of 

Eoan^uTof whichThefe was not any that would confess that ever he saw him go 









302 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C. KNIGHT. 

alive. Some have written that as he essayed to have escaped out of prison, and 
proving to climb over the walls of the castle, he fell into the river of Seine, and so 
was drowned. Other write, that through very grief and languor he pined away 
and died of natural sickness. But some affirm that King John secretly caused him 
to be murdered and made away, so as it is not thoroughly agreed upon, in what 
sort he finished his days ; but verily King John was had in great suspicion, whether 
worthily or not, the Lord knoweth.” 

Wisely has the old chronicler said, “ verily King John was had in great sus¬ 
picion, whether worthily or not, the Lord knoweth and wisely has Shakspere 
taken the least offensive mode of Arthur’s death, which was to be found noticed in 
the obscure records of those times. It is, all things considered, most probable that 
Arthur perished at Rouen. The darkest of the stories connected with his death 
is that which makes him on the night of the 3rd April, 1203, awakened from his 
sleep, and led to the foot of the castle of Rouen, which the Seine washed. There, 
say the French historians, he entered a boat, in which sate John and Peter de 
Maulac, his esquire. Terror took possession of the unhappy boy, and he threw 
himself at his uncle’s feet;—but John came to do or to witness a deed of horror, 
and with his own hand he slew his nephew, and the deep waters of the river re¬ 
ceived the body of his victim. 


85.—KING JOHN AND THE PAPAL POWER.—I. 

Hume. 

The papal chair was in 1201 filled by Innocent III., who having attained that 
dignity at the age of thirty-seven years, and being endowed with a lofty and enter¬ 
prising genius, gave full scope to his ambition, and attempted, perhaps more openly 
than any of his predecessors, to convert that superiority which was yielded him by 
all the European princes, into a real dominion over them. The hierarchy, protected 
by the Roman pontiff, had already carried to an enormous height its usurpations 
upon the civil power ; but in order to extend them further, and render them useful 
to the court of Rome, it was necessary to reduce the ecclesiastics themselves under 
an absolute monarchy, and to make them entirely dependent on their spiritual 
leader. For this purpose, Innocent first attempted to impose taxes at pleasure 
upon the clergy, and in the first year of this century, taking advantage of the 
popular frenzy for crusades, he sent collectors over all Europe, who levied by 
his authority, the fortieth of all ecclesiastical revenues for the relief of the Holy 
Land, and received the voluntary contributions of the laity to a like amount. The 
same year Hubert, archbishop of Canterbury, attempted another innovation, 
favourable to ecclesiastical and papal power. In the king’s absence, he summoned 
by his legantine authority, a synod of all the English clergy, contrary to the inhibi¬ 
tion of Geoffrey Fitz-Peter, the chief justiciary ; and no proper censure was ever 
passed on this encroachment, the first of the kind, upon the royal power. But a 
favourable incident soon after happened, which enabled so aspiring a pontiff as 
Innocent, to extend still farther his usurpations on so contemptible a prince as 
John. 

Hubert, the primate, died in 1205 ; and as the monks or canons of Christ¬ 
church, Canterbury, possessed a right of voting in the election of their archbishop, 
some of the juniors of the order, who lay in wait for that event, met clandestinely 
the very night of Hubert’s death ; and without any conge d’elire from the king, 
chose Reginald, their sub-prior, for the successor ; installed him in the archiepis- 
copal throne before midnight; and, having enjoined him the strictest secrecy, sent 



HUME.] KING JOHN AND THE PAPAL POWER.- 1 . 303 

him immediately to Rome, in order to solicit the confirmation of his election. The 
vanity of Reginald prevailed over his prudence ; and he no sooner arrived in 
Flanders, than he revealed to every one the purpose of his journey, which was im¬ 
mediately known in England. The king was enraged at the novelty and temerity 
of the attempt, in filling so important an office without his knowledge or consent. 
The suffragan bishops of Canterbury, who were accustomed to concur in the choice 
of their primate, were no less displeased at the exclusion given them in this elec¬ 
tion. The senior monks of Christ-church were injured by the irregular proceedings 
of their juniors. The juniors themselves, ashamed of their conduct, and disgusted 
with the levity of Reginald, who had broken his engagements with them, were 
willing to set aside his election ; and all men concurred in the design of remedying 
the false measure which had been taken. But as John knew that this affair would 
be canvassed before a superior tribunal, where the interposition of royal authority 
of bestowing ecclesiastical benefices was very invidious ; where even the cause of 
suffragan bishops was not so favourable as that of monks ; he determined to make 
the new election entirely unexceptionable. He submitted the affair wholly to the 
canons of Christ-church, and departing from the right claimed by his predecessors, 
ventured no farther than to inform them privately, that they would do him an ac¬ 
ceptable service if they chose John de Gray, bishop of Norwich, for their primate. 
The election of that prelate was accordingly made without a contradictory vote ; 
and the king, to obviate all contests, endeavoured to persuade the suffragan bishops 
not to insist on their claim of concurring in the election. But those prelates per¬ 
severing in their pretensions, sent an agent to maintain their cause before Innocent: 
while the king, and the convent of Christ-church, dispatched twelve monks of that 
order to support, before the same tribunal, the election of the bishop of Norwich. 

Thus there lay three different claims before the pope, whom all parties allowed 
to be the supreme arbiter in the contest. The claim of the suffragans, being so 
opposite to the usual maxims of the papal court, was soon set aside. The election 
of Reginald was so obviously fraudulent and irregular, that there was no possibility 
of defending it. But Innocent maintained, that though this election was null and 
invalid, it ought previously to have been declared such by the sovereign pontiff, 
before the monks could proceed to a new election ; and that the choice of the 
bishop of Norwich was of course as uncanonical as that of nis competitor. Ad¬ 
vantage was therefore taken of this subtlety for introducing a precedent, by which 
> the see of Canterbury, the most important dignity in the church after the papal 
throne, should ever after be at the disposal of the court of Rome. 

While the pope maintained so many fierce contests, in order to wrest from 
princes the right of granting investitures, and to exclude laymen from all authority 
in conferring ecclesiastical benefices, he was supported by the united influence of 
the clergy, who, aspiring to independence, fought, with all the aidour of ambition, 
and all the zeal of superstition, under his sacred banners. But no sooner was this 
point, after a great effusion of blood and convulsions of many states, established in 
some tolerable degree, than the victorious leader, as is usual, turned his arms 
against his own community, and aspired to centre all power in his person. By the 
invention of reserves, provisions, commendams, and other devices, the pope gia- 
dually assumed the right of filling vacant benefices; and the plenitude of his 
apostolic power, which was not subject to any limitations, supplied all defects o 
title in the person on whom he bestowed preferment. The canons which 1 egu ate 
elections were purposely rendered intricate and involved. Frequent disputes aiose 
among candidates ; appeals were every day carried to Rome. The Apostolic See, 
besides reaping pecuniary advantages from these contests, often exercised the power 








304 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [HUME, 

of setting aside both the litigants, and on pretence of appeasing faction, nominated 
a third person, who might be more acceptable to the contending parties. 

The present controversy about the election to the See of Canterbury, afforded 
Innocent an opportunity of claiming this right; and he failed not to perceive and 
avail himself of the advantage. He sent for the twelve monks deputed by the 
convent to maintain the cause of the bishop of Norwich.; and commanded them, 
under the penalty of excommunication, to choose for their primate, cardinal Lang- 
ton, an Englishman by birth, but educated in France, and connected by his interest 
and attachments with the See of Rome. In vain did the monks represent, that 
they had received from their convent no authority for this purpose ; that an elec¬ 
tion, without a previous writ from the king, would be deemed highly irregular ; and 
that they were merely agents for another person, whose right they had no power or 
pretence to abandon. None of them had the courage to persevere in this opposi¬ 
tion, except one, Elias de Brantefield ; all the rest, overcome by the menaces and 
authority of the pope, complied with his orders, and made the election required of 
them. 

John was inflamed with the utmost rage when he heard of this attempt of the 
court of Rome ; and he immediately vented his passion on the monks of Christ¬ 
church, whom he found inclined to support the election made by their fellows at 
Rome. He sent Fulke de Cantelupe and Henry de Cornliulle, two knights of his 
retinue, men of violent tempers and rude manners, to expel them the convent, and 
take possession of their revenues. These knights entered the monastery with 
drawn swords, commanded the prior and the monks to depart the kingdom, and 
menaced them, that in case of disobedience, they would instantly burn them wflth 
the convent. Innocent prognosticating, from the violence and imprudence of these 
measures, that John would finally sink in the contest, persevered the more vigorously 
in his pretensions, and exhorted the king not to oppose God and the church any 
longer, nor to prosecute that cause for which the holy martyr St. Thomas had 
sacrificed his life, and which had exalted him equal to the highest saints in heaven, 
A clear hint to John to profit by the example of his father, and to remember the 
prejudices and established principles of his subjects, who bore a profound venera¬ 
tion to that martyr, and regarded his merits as the subject of their chief glory and 
exultation. 

Innocent, finding that John was not sufficiently tamed to submission, sent three 
prelates, the bishops of London, Ely, and Worcester, to intimate that if he per¬ 
severed in his disobedience, the sovereign pontiff would be obliged to lay the king¬ 
dom under an interdict. All the other prelates threw themselves on their knees 
before him, and entreated him, with tears in their eyes, to prevent the scandal of 
this sentence, by making a speedy submission to his spiritual father, by receiving 
from his hands the new-elected primate, and by restoring the monks of Christ¬ 
church to all their rights and possessions. He burst out into the most indecent 
invectives against the prelates ; swore by God’s teeth, (his usual oath), that if the 
pope presumed to lay his kingdom under an interdict, he would send to him all 
the bishops and clergy in England, and would confiscate all their estates ; and 
threatened, that if, thenceforth he caught any Romans in his dominions, he would 
put out their eyes, and cut off their noses, in order to set a mark upon them which 
might distinguish them from all other nations. Amidst all this idle violence, John 
stood on such bad terms with his nobility, that he never dared to assemble the 
states of the kingdom, who, in so just a cause, would probably have adhered to any 
other monarch, and have defended with vigour the liberties of the nation against 
these palpable usurpations of the court of Rome. Innocent, therefore, perceiving 




EUME.J 


KING JOHN AND TIIE PAPAL POWER.-1. 


305 


the king’s weakness, fulminated at last the sentence of interdict, which he had for 
some time held suspended over him. 

The sentence of interdict was at that time the great instrument of vengeance 
and policy employed by the court of Rome ; was denounced against sovereigns for 
the slightest offences ; and made the guilt of one person involve the ruin of millions, 
even in their spiritual and eternal welfare. The execution of it was calculated to 
strike the senses in the highest degree, and to operate with irresistible force on the 
superstitious minds of the people. The nation was of a sudden deprived of all 
exterior exercise of its religion : the altars were despoiled of their ornaments : the 
crosses, the relics, the images, the statues of the saints, were laid on the ground ; 
and, as if the air itself were profaned, and might pollute them by its contact, the 
priests carefully covered them up, even from their own approach and veneration. 
The use of bells entirely ceased in all the churches. The bells themselves were re¬ 
moved from the steeples, and laid on the ground with the other sacred utensils. 
Mass was celebrated with shut doors, and none but the priests were admitted to 
that holy institution. The laity partook of no religious rite, except baptism to 
new-born infants, and the communion to the dying. The dead were not interred 
in consecrated ground. They were thrown into ditches, or buried in common 
fields; and their obsequies were not attended with prayers or any hallowed cere¬ 
mony. Marriages were celebrated in the church-yards ; and that every action in 
life might bear the marks of this dreadful situation, the people were prohibited the 
use of meat, as in Lent, or times of the highest penance ; were debarred from all 
pleasures and entertainments ; and were forbidden even to salute each other ; or 
so much as to shave their beards, and give any decent attention to their person and 
apparel. Every circumstance carried symptoms of the deepest distress, and of the 
most immediate apprehension of divine vengeance and indignation. 


86.—KING JOHN AND THE PAPAL POWER.—II. 


Hujie. 




. 




The quarrel between the king and the see of Rome continued for some years ; 
and though many of the clergy, from the fear of punishment, obeyed the orders of 
John, and celebrated divine service, they complied with the utmost reluctance, and 
were regarded, both by themselves and the people, as men who betrayed their 
principles, and sacrificed their conscience to temporal regards and interests. During 
this violent situation, the king, in order to give a lustre to his government, attempted 
military expeditions against Scotland, against Ireland, against the Welch ; and he 
commonly prevailed, more from the weakness of his enemies, than from his own 
' vigour or abilities. Meanwhile, the danger to which his government stood 
continually exposed from the discontent of ecclesiastics, increased his natural 
propension to tyranny ; and he seems to have ever wantonly disgusted all orders of 
men, especially his nobles, from whom alone he could reasonably expect support 
and assistance. He dishonoured their families by his licentious amours ; he 
published edicts, prohibiting them from hunting feathered game, and thereby 
restrained them from their favourite amusement; he ordered all the hedges and 
fences near his forests to be levelled, that his deer might have more ready access 
into the fields for pasture ; and he continually loaded the nation with arbitrary 
impositions. Conscious of the general hatred which he had incurred, he required 
his nobility to give him hostages for security of their allegiance ; and they were 
obliged to put into his hands their sons, nephews, or near relations. "When his 
messenger came with like orders to the castle of William de Braouse, a baron of 
great note, the lady of that nobleman replied, “ that she would never entrust her 

N 









306 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HUMS. 

son into the hands of one who had murdered his own nephew while in his custody. 1 ’ 
Her husband reproved her for the severity of this speech ; but, sensible of his 
danger, he immediately fled with his wife and son into Ireland, where he endea¬ 
voured to conceal himself. The king discovered the unhappy family in their 
retreat; seized the wife and son whom he starved to death in prison ; and the 
baron himself narrowly escaped, by flying into France. 

The court of Rome had artfully contrived a gradation of sentences ; by which 
she kept offenders in awe ; still afforded them an opportunity of preventing the 
next anathema by submission ; and, in case of their obstinacy, was able to refresh 
the horror of the people against them, by new denunciations of the wrath and 
vengeance of heaven. As the sentence of interdict had not produced the desired 
effect on John, and his people, though extremely discontented, had hitherto been 
restrained from rising in open rebellion against him, he was soon to look for the 
sentence of excommunication ; and he had reason to apprehend, that notwith¬ 
standing all his precautions, the most dangerous consequences might ensue from it. 
He was witness of the other scenes which at that very time were acting in Europe, 
and which displayed the unbounded and uncontrolled power of the Papacy., 
Innocent, far from being dismayed at his contests with the King of England, had 
excommunicated the emperor Otho, John’s nephew ; and soon brought that powerful 
and haughty prince to submit to his authority. He published a crusade against 
the Albigenses, a species of enthusiasts in the south of France, whom he denomi¬ 
nated heretics ; because, like other enthusiasts, they neglected the rights of the 
church, and opposed the power and influence of the clergy: The people from all 
points of Europe, moved by their superstition and their passion for wars and 
adventures, flocked to his standard : Simon de Montfort, the general of the crusade, 
acquired to himself a sovereignty in these provinces : The count of Toulouse, who 
protected, or perhaps only tolerated the Albigenses, was stripped of his dominions: 
And these sectaries themselves, though the most innocent and inoffensive of 
mankind, were exterminated with all the circumstances of extreme violence and 
barbarity. Here were therefore both an army and a general, dangerous from their 
zeal and valour, who might be directed to act against John ; and Innocent, after 
keeping the thunder long suspended, gave at last authority to the bishops of London, 
Ely, and Worcester to fulminate the sentence of excommunication against him. 
These prelates obeyed ; though their brethren were deterred from publishing, as 
the pope required of them, the sentence in the several churches of their dioceses. 

No sooner was the excommunication known, than the effects of it appeared. 
Geoffrey, archdeacon of Norwich, who was entrusted with a considerable office ia 
the court of exchequer, being informed of it while sitting on the bench, observed to 
his colleague the danger of serving under an excommunicated king ; and he imme¬ 
diately left his chair, and departed the court. John gave orders to seize him to 
throw him into prison, to cover his head with a great leaden cope ; and by this 
and other severe usage he put an end to his life : Nor was there any thing wanting 
to Geoffrey, except the dignity and rank of Becket, to exalt him to an equal station 
in heaven, with that great and celebrated martyr. Hugh de Wells, the chancellor, 
being elected, by the king’s appointment, bishop of Lincoln, upon a vacancy in 
that see, desired leave to go abroad, in order to receive consecration from the arch¬ 
bishop of Rouen ; but he no sooner reached France than he hastened to Pontigray, 
where Langton then resided, and paid submission to him as his primate. ^The 
bishops, finding themselves exposed either to the jealousy of the kino- or hatred of 
the people, gradually stole out of the kingdom ; and at last there remained only 
three prelates to perform the functions of the episcopal office. Many of the nobility, 
terrified by John’s tyranny, and obnoxious to him on different accounts, imitated 


HUME.] KING JOHN AND THE PAPAL FOWER.-II. 307 

the example of the bishops ; and most of the others who remained were, with 
reason, suspected of having secretly entered into a confederacy against him. John 
was alarmed at his dangerous situation ; a situation which prudence, vigour, and 
popularity might formerly have prevented, but which no virtues or abilities were 
now sufficient to retrieve. He desired a conference with Langton at Dover ; offered 
to acknowledge him as primate, to submit to the pope, to restore the exiled clergy, 
even to pay them a limited sum as a compensation for the rents of their confiscated 
estates. But Langton, perceiving his advantage, was not satisfied with these 
concessions : he demanded that full restitution and reparation should be made to 
all the clergy ; a condition so exorbitant that the king, who probably had not the 
power of fulfilling it, and who foresaw that this estimation of damages might 
amount to an immense sum, finally broke off the conference. 

The next gradation of papal sentences was to absolve John’s subjects from their 
oaths of fidelity and allegiance, and to declare every one excommunicated who had 
any commerce with him in public or in private ; at his table, in his council, or even 
in private conversation : And this sentence was accordingly, with all imaginable 
solemnity, pronounced against him. But as John still persevered in his contumacy, 
there remained nothing but the sentence of deposition ; 'which, though intimately 
connected with the former, had been distinguished from it by the artifice of the 
court of Rome ; and Innocent determined to dart this last thunderbolt against the 
refractory monarch. But as a sentence of this kind required an armed force to 
execute it, the pontiff, casting his eyes around, fixed at last on Philip, king of France, 
as the person into whose powerful hand he could most properly entrust that 
weapon, the ultimate resource of his ghostly authority. And he offered the 
monarch, besides the remission of all his sins, and endless spiritual benefits, the 
property and possession of the kingdom of England, as the reward of his labour. 

It was the common concern of all princes to oppose these exorbitant pretension" 
of the Roman pontiff, by which they themselves were rendered vassals, and vassal, 
totally dependent of the papal crown : Yet even Philip, the most able monarch of 
the age, was seduced by present interest, and by the prospect of so tempting a prize, 
to accept the liberal offer of the pontiff, and thereby to ratify that authority which, 
if he ever opposed its boundless usurpations, might next day tumble him from the 
throne. He levied a great army ; summoned all vassals of the crown to attend him 
at Rouen; collected a fleet of 1700 vessels, great and small, in the sea-ports of 
Normandy and Picardy ; and partly from the zealous spirit of the age, partly from 
the personal regard universally paid him, prepared a force, which seemed equal to 
the greatness of the enterprise. The king, on the other hand, issued out writs, 
requiring the attendance of all his military tenants at Dover, and even of all able- 
bodied men, to defend the kingdom in this dangerous extremity. A great number 
appeared ; and he selected an army of 60,000 men ; a power invincible, had they 
been united in affection to their prince, and animated with a becoming zeal for the 
defence of their native country. But the people were swayed by superstition, and 
regarded their king with horror, as anathematised by papal censures : The barons, 
besides lying under the same prejudices, were all disgusted by his tyranny, and 
were, many of them, suspected of holding a secret correspondence with the enemy: 
And the incapacity and cowardice of the king himself, ill fitted to contend with 
those mighty difficulties, made men prognosticate the most fatal effects from the 
French invasion. 

Pandolf, whom the pope had chosen for his legate, and appointed to head this 
important expedition, had, before he left Rome, applied for a secret conference with 
his master, and had asked him, whether, if the king of England in this desperate 
situation, were willing to submit to the apostolic see, the church should, without 









303 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HUME 

the consent of Philip, grant him any terms of accommodation 1 Innocent, expecting 
from his agreement with a prince so abject both in character and fortune, more 
advantages than from his alliance with a great and victorious monarch, who, after 
such mighty acquisitions might become too haughty to be bound by spiritual 
chains, explained to Pandolf the conditions on which he was willing to be recon¬ 
ciled to the king of England. The legate, therefore, as soon as he arrived in the 
north of France, sent over two knights templars to desire an interview of John at 
Dover, which was readily granted : He there represented to him, in such strong, 
and probably in such true colours, his lost condition, the disaffection of his subjects, 
the secret combination of his vassals against him, the mighty armament of France, 
that John yielded at discretion, and subscribed to all the conditions which Pandolf 
was pleased to impose upon him. He promised, among other articles, that he would 
submit himself entirely to the judgment of the pope; that he would acknowledge 
Langton for primate ; that he would restore all the exiled clergy and laity who had 
been banished on account of the contest; that he would make them full restitution 
of their goods, and compensation for all damages, and instantly consign eight 
thousand pounds in part of payment; and that every one outlawed or imprisoned 
for his adherence to the pope, should immediately be received into grace and 
favour. Four barons swore, along with the king, to the observance of this igno¬ 
minious treaty. 

But the ignominy of the king was not yet carried to its full height. Pandolf 
required him, as the first trial of obedience, to resign his kingdom to the church ; 
and he persuaded him, that he could nowise so effectually disappoint the French 
invasion, as by thus putting himself under the immediate protection of the apostolic 
see. John, lying under the agonies of present terror, made no scruple of submitting 
to this condition. He passed a charter, in which he said, that not constrained by 
fear, but of his own free will, and by the common advice and consent of his barons, 
he had, for remission of his own sins, and those of his family, resigned England and 
Ireland to God, to St. Peter and St Paul, and to pope Innocent, and his successors 
in the apostolic chair: He agreed to hold these dominions as feudatory of the church 
of Rome, by the annual payment of a thousand marks ; seven hundred for England, 
three hundred for Ireland : And he stipulated, that if he or his successors should 
ever presume to revoke or infringe this charter, they should instantly, except upon 
admonition they repented of their offence, forfeit all right to their dominions. 

In consequence of this agreement, John, did homage to Pandolf as the pope’s 
legate with all the submissive rites which the feudal law required of vassals before 
their liege-lord and superior. He came disarmed into the legate’s presence, who 
was seated on a throne ; he flung himself on his knees before him ; he lifted up his 
joined hands, and put them within those of Pandolf ; he swore fealty to the pope ; 
and he paid part of the tribute which he owed for his kingdom as the patrimony 
of St. Peter. The legate, elated by this supreme triumph of sacerdotal power, could 
not forbear discovering extravagant symptoms of joy and exultation : He trampled 
on the money, which was laid at his feet, as an earnest of the subjection of the 
kingdom : An insolence of which, however offensive to all the English, no one 
present, except the archbishop of Dublin, dared to take any notice. But though 
Pandolf had brought the king to submit to these base conditions, he still refused 
to free him from the excommunication and interdict, till an estimation should be 
taken of the losses of the ecclesiastics, and full compensation and restitution should 
be made them. 


H CJME. ] 


KING JOHN AND THE BARONS. 


309 


87.—KING JOHN AND THE BARONS. 


Hume. 


The introduction of the feudal law into England by William the conqueror, had 
much infringed the liberties, however imperfect, enjoyed by the Anglo-Saxons m 
their ancient government, and had reduced the whole people to a state of vassalage 
under the king or barons, and even the greater part to a state of real slavery. ie 
necessity also of entrusting great power in the hands of a prince who was to main¬ 
tain military dominion over a vanquished nation, had engaged the Noiman axons 
to submit to a more severe and absolute prerogative, than that to which men of 
their rank, in other feudal governments, were commonly subjected. The power of 
the crown, once raised to a high pitch, was not easily reduced ; and the nation, 
during the course of a hundred and fifty years, was governed by an authority 
known, in the same degree, to all the kingdoms founded by the northern conquerois. 
Henry I that he might allure the people to give an exclusion to his elder brot er 
Robert, had granted them a charter, favourable in many particulars to their hber- 
ties • Stephen had renewed the grant; Henry II. had confirmed it but the con¬ 
cessions of all these princes had still remained without effect;“/' 
limited, at least irregular authority, continued to be exercised both by them a 
their successors. The only happiness was, that arms were never yet ravished fiom 
the hands of the barons and people: The nation, by a great confederacy might 
still vindicate its liberties; and nothing was more likely, than the character, con¬ 
duct and fortunes of the reigning prince, to produce such a general combination 
against him Equally odious and contemptible, both m public and private ife, he 
affronted the barons by his insolence, dishonoured their families by his gal lantr.es, 
enraged them by his tyranny, and gave discontent to all ranks of men by is en - 
less factions and impositions. The effect of these lawless practices had already 
appeared in the general demand made by the barons of a restoration of their pr.vi- 
kges and after he had reconciled himself to the pope, by abandoning the inde- 
Sence of the kingdom, he appeared to all his subjects in so mean a light that 
they universally thought they might with safety and honour insist upon their 

P1 ' Butlothinc forwarded this confederacy so much as the concurrence of Langton. 
archbishop of Canterbury; a man whose memory, though he was obtruded on he 
nation by a palpable encroachment of the See of Rome, ought always to be respected 
by he English This prelate, whether he was moved by the generosity of h,s 
nature an! his affection to public good ; or had entertained an animosity against 

n on account of the long o^ositmn - “ £ 

secuie tne pnv 0 o-rpat innovation, by inserting those sm 

tothoWbrfon, 

^ London, he showed them a copy of 
Ky I.“ chX, which, he said, he had happily found in a monaste.y; and he 
exhorted them to insist on the renewal “ a V"f"m realonab a deZni 

that they would sooner lose their lives thar^ depa. t aU the 

The confederacy began now to spread wider * mee w was summoned by 

barons in England ; and a new and man again produced to 

Langton at St. Edmon s ury, un ei exhortations of unanimity and 

- -r— - *>“ 










310 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HU3VIJ4 

colours the tyranny to which they had so long been subjected, and from which it 
now behoved them to free themselves and their posterity. The barons, inflamed 
by his eloquence, incited by the sense of their own wrongs, and encouraged by the 
appearance of their power and numbers, solemnly took an oath, before the high altar, 
to adhere to each other, to insist on their demands, and to make endless war on 
the king, till he should submit to grant them. They agreed, that, after the festival 
of Christmas, they would prefer in a body their common petition ; and, in the 
mean time, they separated, after mutually engaging, that they would put themselves 
in a posture of defence, would enlist men and purchase arms, and would supply 
their castles with the necessary provisions. 

The barons appeared in London on the day appointed, and demanded of the 
king, that, in consequence of his own oath before the primate, as well as in defe¬ 
rence to their just rights, he should grant them a renewal of Henry’s charter, and 
a confirmation of the laws of St. Edward. The king, alarmed with their zeal and 
unanimity, as well as with their power, required a delay ; promised that, at the 
festival of Easter, he would give them a positive answer to their petition ; and 
offered them the archbishop of Canterbury, the bishop of Ely, and the earl of Pem¬ 
broke, the Mareschal, as sureties for his fulfilling this engagement. The barons 
accepted of the terms, and peaceably returned to their castles. 

During this interval, John, in order to break or subdue the league of his barons, 
endeavoured to avail himself of the ecclesiastical power, of whose influence he had, 
from his own recent misfortunes, had such fatal experience. He granted to the 
clergy a charter, relinquishing for ever that important prerogative for which his 
father and all his ancestors had zealously contended ; yielding to them the free 
election on all vacancies ; reserving only the power to issue a conge d’elire, and to 
subjoin a confirmation of the election; and declaring that, if either of these were 
withheld, the choice should nevertheless be deemed just and valid. He made a 
vow to lead an army into Palestine against the infidels, and he took on him the 
cross ; in hopes that he should receive from the church that protection which he 
tendered to every one that had entered into this sacred and meritorious engage¬ 
ment ; and he sent to Rome his agent, William de Mauclerc, in order to appeal to 
the pope against the violence of his barons, and procure him a favourable sentence 
from that powerful tribunal. The barons also were not negligent on their part in 
endeavouring to engage the pope in their interests. They dispatched Eustace de 
Yescie to Rome ; laid their case before Innocent as their feudal lord ; and peti¬ 
tioned him to interpose his authority with the king, and oblige him to restore and 
confirm all their just and unbounded privileges. 

Inuocent beheld with regret the disturbances which had arisen in England and 
was much inclined to favour John in his pretensions. He had no hopes of retain¬ 
ing and extending his newly acquired superiority over that kingdom, but by sup¬ 
porting so base and degenerate a prince, who was willing to sacrifice every consi¬ 
deration to his present safety. And he foresaw, that if the administration should 
fall into the hands of those gallant and high-spirited barons, they would vindicate 
the honour, liberty, and independence of the nation, with the same ardour which 
they now exerted in defence of their own. He wrote letters therefore to the pre¬ 
lates, to the nobility, and to the king himself. He exhorted the first to employ 
their good offices in conciliating peace between the contending parties, and puttinfl¬ 
an end to civil discord : To the second, he expressed his disapprobation of their 
conduct in employing force to extort concessions from their reluctant sovereign • 
The last he advised to treat his nobles with grace and indulgence, and to grant them 
luch of their demands as should appear just and reasonable. 

The barons easily saw, from the tenor of these letters, that they must reckon on 


HUME.] 


KING JOHN AND THE BARONS. 


311 


having the pops as well as the king for tlieir adversary ; hut they had already ad 
vanced too far to recede from their pretensions, and their passions were so deeply 
engaged, that it exceeded even the power of superstition itself any longer to control 
them. They also foresaw, that the thunders of Rome, when not seconded by the 
efforts of the English ecclesiastics, would be of small avail against them ; and they 
perceived, that the most considerable of the prelates, as well as all the inferior 
clergy, professed the highest approbation of their cause. Besides that these men 
were seized with the national passion for laws and liberty, blessings of which they 
themselves expected to partake : there concurred very powerful causes to loosen 
their devoted attachment to the apostolic see. It appeared, from the late usurpa¬ 
tions of the Roman pontiff, that he pretended to reap alone all the advantages 
accruing from that victory, which, under his banners, though at their own peril, 
they had every where obtained over the civil magistrate. The pope assumed a 
despotic power over all the churches. Their particular customs, privileges, and 
immunities were treated with disdain. Even the canons of general councils were 
set aside by his dispensing power ; The whole administration of the church was 
centered in the court of Rome ; all preferments ran of course in the same channel; 
and the provincial clergy saw, at least felt, that there was a necessity for. limiting 
these pretensions. The legate, Nicholas, in filling those numerous vacancies which 
had fallen in England during an interdict of six years, had proceeded m the most 
arbitrary manner, aDd had paid no regard, in conferring dignities, to personal merit, 
to rank to the inclination of the electors, or to the customs of the country. The 
English church was universally disgusted ; and Langton himself, though he owe 
his elevation to an encroachment of the Romish see, was no sooner established m 
his high office, than he became jealous of the privileges annexed to it, and formed 
attachments with the country subjected to his jurisdiction. These causes though 
they opened slowly the eyes of men, failed not to produce their effect: They set 
bounds to the usurpations of the papacy : The tide first stopped, and then turned 
against the sovereign pontiff ; and it is otherwise inconceivable, how that age, so 
prone to superstition, and so sunk in ignorance or rather so devoted to a spurious 
condition, could have escaped falling into an absolute and total slavery under the 

COl \Lut^hTtime that the Pope's letters arrived in England, the malcontent barons 
on the approach of the festival of Easter, when they were to expect the kings 
answer to tlieir petition, met by agreement at Stamford ; and they assembled a 
force consisting of above two thousand knights, besides their retainers and inferior 
pemons without number. Elated with their power, they advanced in a body to 
Brackley within fifteen miles of Oxford, the place where the comt then 1 esidei , and 
fbTv there received a message from the king, by the archbishop of Canterbury and 
fte earl of Pembroke, desiring to know what those liberties were which they so 

zealous V challenged from their sovereign. They delivered to these messengers a 
zealously cnai _ ? articles of their demands ; which was no sooner shown 

^ and - ked ’^ the bar °n, did 

not also demand of him his kingdom ; swearing that he would never grant them 

such liberties as must leduee^themjio^av^y^^^ , jf Jo ] , n > s re ply, than they 

Iso sooner were ^ ieneral, whom they called the Mareschal of the army 

chose Robert Fitz-Walte their_ge e > ^ further ceremony to i cvy 

of God and of hoy c »« , e „ ed the castle of Northampton during fifteen days, 

war upon the king They taieg of cast , e were willingly opened to 

S^WiluLX'imhamp'its owner ; They advanced to Ware in their way to 
where they held a correspondence with the principal citizens ; They were 











312 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HUME. 

received without opposition into that capital ; and finding now the great superio¬ 
rity of their force, they issued proclamations, requiring the other barons to join 
them ; and menacing them, in case of refusal or delay, with committing devastation 
on their houses and estates. In order to shew what might be expected from their 
prosperous arms, they made incursions from London, and laid waste the king’s 
parks and palaces ; and all the barons, who had hitherto carried the semblance of 
supporting the royal party, were glad of this pretence for openly joining a cause 
which they always had secretly favoured. The king was left at Odiham, in Hamp¬ 
shire, with a poor retinue of only seven knights ; and after trying several expe¬ 
dients to elude the blow, after offering to refer all differences to the pope alone, or 
to eight barons, four to be chosen by himself, and four by the confederates, he 
found himself at last obliged to submit at discretion. 

A conference between the king and the barons was appointed at Runnemede, 
between Windsor and Staines ; a place which has ever since been extremely cele¬ 
brated, on account of this great event. The two parties encamped apart, like open 
enemies ; and after a debate of a few days, the king, with a facility somewhat 
suspicious, signed and sealed the charter which was required of him. This famous 
deed, commonly called the Great Charter, either granted or secured very important 
liberties and privileges to every order of men in the kingdom ; to the clergy, to the 
barons, and to the people. 


88.—RUNNEMEDE. 

C. Knight. 

The political history of John may be read in the most durable of antiquities— 
the Records of the kingdom. And the people may read the most remarkable of 
these records whenever they please to look upon it. Magna Charta, the great 
charter of England, entire as at the hour it was written, is preserved, not for re¬ 
ference on doubtful questions of right, not to be proclaimed at market-crosses or 
to be read in churches, as in the time of Edward I., but for the gratification of a 
just curiosity and an honest national pride. The humblest in the land may look 
upon that document day by day, in the British Museum, which more than six 
hundred years ago declared that “ no freeman shall be arrested or imprisoned, or 
dispossessed of his tenement, or outlawed, or exiled, or in any manner proceeded 
against, unless by the legal judgment of his peers, or by the law of the land.” This 
is the foundation of the statute upon statute, and of what is as stringent as statute, 
the common law, through which for six hundred years we have been struggling to 
breathe the breath of freedom,—and we have not struggled in vain. The Great 
Charter is in Latin, written in a beautiful hand. 

Runnemede,—or Runingmede, as the Charter has it,—was, according to Matthew 
of Westminster, a place where treaties concerning the peace of the kingdom had 
been often made. The name distinctly signifies a place of council. Ruene-rned is 
an Anglo-Saxon compound, meaning the Council-Meadow. We can never forget 
that Council-Meadow, for it entered into our first visions of Liberty :_ 

“Fair Runnemede! oft hath my lingering eye 
Paus’d on thy tufted green and cultur’d hill; 

And there my busy soul would drink her fill 
Of lofty dreams, which on thy bosom lie. 

Dear plain! never my feet have pass’d thee by, 

At sprightly morn, high noon, or evening still, 

But thou hast fathom’d all my pliant will 
To soul-ennobling thoughts of liberty. 




C. KNIGHT.] 


RUNNEMEDE. 


313 


Thou dost not need a perishable stone 
Of sculptur’d story;—records ever young 
Proclaim the gladdening triumph thou hast known :— 
The soil, the x assing stream, hath still a tongue ; 
And every wind breathes out an eloquent tone 
That Freedom’s self might wake, thy fields among.” 


These are commonplace rhymes—schoolboy verses ; but we are not ashamed of 
having written them. Runnemede was our Marathon. Very beautiful is that 
narrow slip of meadow on the edge of the Thames, with gentle hills bounding it 
for a mile or so. It is a valley of fertility. Is this a fitting place to be the cradle 
of English freedom? Ought we not, to make our associations harmonious, to have 
something bolder and sterner than this quiet mead, and that still water, with its 
island cottage? Poetry tells us that “rocky ramparts” are 
“ The rough abodes of want and liberty.” — Gray. 

But the liberty of England was nurtured in her prosperity. The Great Charter, 
which says, “ No freeman, or merchant, or villain shall be unreasonably fined for a 
small offence,—the first shall not be deprived of his tenement, the second of his 
merchandise, the third of his implements of husbandry, exhibited a state far moie 
advanced than that of the “want and liberty” of the poet, where the iron race of 
the mountain cliffs 


“ Insult the plenty of the vales below.” 

Runnemede is a fitting place for the cradle of English liberty. Denham, who fiom 
his Cooper’s Hill looked down upon the Thames, wandering past this mead to be¬ 
come “ the world’s exchange,” somewhat tamely speaks of the plain at his feet: 

“ Here was that Charter seal’d, wherein the crown 


All marks of arbitrary power lays down; 

Tyrant and slave, those names of hate and fear, 

The happier style of king and subject bear; 

Happy when both to the same centre move, 

When kings give liberty and subjects love.” 

Our liberty was not so won. It was wrested from kings, and not given by them ; 
and the love we bestow upon those who are the central point of our liberty is the 
homage of reason to security. That security has made the Thames the word s 
exchange •” that security has raised up the great city which lies like a mist below 
Cooper’s Hill; that security has caused the towers of Windsor, which we see from 
the same hill, to rise up in new splendour, instead of crumbling into ruin like many 
a stronghold of feudal oppression. Our prosperity is the child of our free institu¬ 
tions • and the child has gone forward strengthening and succouring the parent. 
Yet the iron men who won this charter of liberties dreamt not of the day when a 
greater power than their own, the power of the merchants and the villains wou 
rise up to keep what they had sworn to win, upon the altar of St. Edmundsbuiy. 
The Eitz-Walter, and De Roos, and De Clare, and De Percy, and De Manoeville, and 
De Vescy, and De Mowbray, and De Montacute, and De Beauchamp —these great 
progenitors of our English nobility,—compelled the despot to put his seal to the 
Charter of Runnemede. But another order of men, whom they of the po t 
shield and the mascled armour would have despised as slaves, have kept, and wi 
keep, God willing, what they won on the 15th of June, in t ie } cai o to iace 
The thing has rooted into our English earth like the Ankevwyke lew on the oppo¬ 
site bank of the Thames, which is still vigorous, though held io be oldei than t e 

great day of Runnemede. 


/ 










314 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C. KNIGHT. 

Magna Charta is a record. Bishop Nicholson says, “ Our stores of public re¬ 
cords are justly reckoned to excel in age, beauty, correctness, and authority, what¬ 
ever the choicest archives abroad can boast of the like sort. ’ Miles, nay, hundreds 
of miles, of parchment are preserved in our public offices, which incidentally ex¬ 
hibit the progress of the nation in its institutions and its habits, and decide many 
an historical fact which would otherwise be matter of controversy or of speculation. 
Nothing can more truly manifest the value of these documents than the fact that 
the actual place in which this said king John was, on almost every day, from the 
first year of his reign to the last, has been traced by a diligent examination of the 
Patent Rolls in the Tower of London. Mr. Hardy has appended to his curious 
Introduction to these Rolls, published by authority of the Record Commission, the 
“ Itinerary of king John.” A most restless being does he appear to have been, 
flying about in cumbrous carriages to all parts of England ; sailing to Normandy; 
now holding his state in his palace at Westminster, now at Windsor; and never 
at ease till he was laid in his tomb at Worcester. We extract an instructive pas¬ 
sage from Mr. Hardy’s Introduction :— 

“ Rapin, Hume, Henry, and those English historians who have followed Matthew 
Paris, state that, as soon as king John had sealed the Great Charter, he became 
sullen, dejected, and reserved, and shunning the society of his nobles and courtiers, 
retired, with a few of his attendants, to the Isle of Wight, as if desirous of hiding 
his shame and confusion, where he conversed only with fishermen and sailors, 
diverting himself with walking on the sea-shore with his domestics ; that, in this 
retreat, he formed plans for the recovery of the prerogatives which he had lately 
relinquished ; and meditated, at the same time, the most fatal vengeance against 
his enemies ; that he sent his emissaries abroad to collect an army of mercenaries 
and Brabagons, and dispatched messengers to Rome, for the purpose of securing the 
protection ol the papal see ; and that, whilst his agents were employed in execut¬ 
ing their several commissions, he himself remained in the Isle of Wight, awaiting 
the arrival of the foreign soldiers. 

“ That these statements are partially if not wholly unfounded will appear by the 
attestations to the royal letters during the period in question. 

“Previously to the sealing of Magna Charta, namely, from the 1st to the 3rd of 
June, 1215, the king was at Windsor, from which place he can be traced, by his 
attestations, to Odiliam, and thence to Winchester, where he remained till the 8th. 
From Winchester he went to Merton ; he was again at Odiham on the 9th, 
whence he returned to Windsor, and continued there till the 15th : on that day he 
met the barons at Runnemede by appointment, and there sealed the great charter 
of English liberty. The king then returned to Windsor, and remained there until 
the 18th of June, from which time until the 23rd he was every day both at 
Windsor and Runnemede, and did not finally leave Windsor and its vicinity before 
the 26th of the same month ; John then proceeded through Odiham to Winchester, 
and continued in that city till the end of June. The first four days of July he 
passed at Marlborough, from which place he went to Devizes, Bradenstoke, and 
Caine ; reached Cirencester on the 7th, and returned to Marlborough on the follow¬ 
ing day. He afterwards went to Ludgershall, and through Clarendon into Dorset¬ 
shire, as far as Corfe Castle, but returned to Clarendon on the 15th of July, from 
which place he proceeded, through Newbury and Abingdon, to Woodstock, and 
thence to Oxford, where he arrived on the 17th of that month ; and in a letter 
dated on the 15th of July, between Newbury and Abingdon, the king mentions 
the impossibility of his reaching Oxford by the 16th, according to his appointment 
with the barons.” 


BOUTHEY.] 


THE FIRST NAVAL VICTORY. 


316 


89 .—THE EIRST NAVAL VICTORY. 


Southey. 


A mi ll all his disputes with the Pope and with his barons, John never neglected 
his naval concerns, and, unpopular as he was with other classes, never ost e 
good-will of his seamen. In the seventh year of Ins reign with the advice o 11 s 
council, he prepared for attempting to recover Normandy, of which Philip Augustus 
had possessed himself; a strong national feeling was manifested in favoui of this 
iust enterprise, the barons vied with each other in their preparations and so large 

1 fleet was collected at Portsmouth, that it was believed so many ships had never 

been brought together before ; the number of mariners on board is stated at 14,000, 
who had come from all parts of the kingdom to serve then country But whe 
all things were ready, and all in heart and hope, the Archbishop Hubert and the 
Earl of Pembroke, for reasons which have not been explained, compc et, la ei 
fhan persuaded him to abandon his intention. Bitter curses were breathed by he 
sailors against the evil counsellors, as they deemed them, who had frustrated this 
mighty preparation ; and John himself was “ pinched so near the heart, by tho 
disgrace 1 and disappointment, that having got to Winchester, he repented hi 
having yielded, turned back to Portsmouth, embarked, sailed out of the haiboui, 
and for two days kept hovering off, in hopes that the troops which had been dis¬ 
missed would when they heard this, follow his example ; but it was too late 
^An. effort was made with more effect when Philip Augustus, under the Popes 
. • reoare d as the champion of the Papal Church, to invade England, an- 

depose an excommunicated king. Philip had long been provided 

m-ise little caring under what pretext he might undertake it. The possess o . 

Normandv had riven him more ships and seamen than any former king o r i 

^'^^^^^^re^if^^^m^to^be'unkded^andTsent'roun^to'portsmo^utl^ well'pro- 

vkledriwitl? furnishedwitif moveable platformsfOTjemtork- 

were to see that they weie i P y whicb he assembled i s sa id to have 

ing and disembarking t e mi • probably means in the size and 

been far stronger thantJ -ch ^^ ^ the sail L, not in numbers. And, “ he 
equipment of the snips, aim b is real . both 

had got together such an army o m * . b commons, .... that notwith- 

of lords, knights, gentlemen, yeomen, an possibly be recovered, there could 

standing all the pr-owisxorr of vrctrrals tHat of tho ’ se that we re 

not be found sufficient store to jtmn^the^ ^ commons> therefor* were dis- 

gathered along s “ ie ‘ etaini n g only the men-at-arms, yeomen, and freeholders, 
charged, and sent home, retaim g y hers Even after this reduction, 

with the cross-bowmen or arbahsters^ a d ■ the cbr0 nicler might well 

60,000 men were assembled on EarUam vov , , the serv i C e of their 

say, “If they had been all of one mine, anc w ^ een & - ce in Christendom but 
king and defence of their country, theie h< • t him.” The land pre- 

that they might have defended the rea m T ® ,“^ ubmi g S ° ion to the legate, Pandulph ; 
parations were rendered unnecessary, y him, as the Pope’s re- 

-nd his kingdom, by a 









316 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [SOUTHEY, 

written instrument, to an annual payment of 1000 marks for ever, in token of 
vassalage. 

In those days this was not regarded as so unworthy an act as it is properly now 
considered ; nor was it in fear of ^e foreign enemy, that John had consented to it. 
Base as he was, he was of a race that never failed in courage. When Philip Augustus 
was informed, by the legate, that the king of England had submitted, and that, 
consequently, his aid was no longer required for reducing the disobedient son of 
the Church, he was exceedingly indignant, and his first impulse was to go forward 
with the enterprise, in defiance of the Pope. All his nobles and feudatory chiefs 
concurred in this, except the Earls of Boulogne and Flanders, whom a reasonable 
jealousy of Philip had induced to treat secretly with John. Their opposition frus¬ 
trated his design, and he immediately turned his arms upon Flanders. Fernando 
de Portugal, son of king Sancho I., was then Earl of Flanders, in right of Joanna 
his wife, a man more brave than fortunate ; the name, indeed, in his family, seems 
to have carried misfortune with it. Philip had extorted from him, on his marriage, 
the towns of Aire and St. Omer, and the sense of the wrong then done him was 
rankling in his mind. On the other hand, he had not acted now as an open 
enemy ; and Philip, in the temper of one who was punishing a vassal for his breach 
of faith, besieged, and with little opposition took Calais, took possession of Ypres 
and Bruges, and then laid siege to Ghent, sending his fleet, meantime, to Damme. 
Fernando sent over to England for immediate aid, and John forthwith despatched 
500 sail, under William, Earl of Holland, William Longspear Earl of Salisbury, his 
own bastard brother, and the Earl of Boulogne. 

Damme, which was now to be the scene of the first great naval action between 
the English and French, and the first great naval victory recorded in the English 
annals, was at that time the port of Bruges, from whence it is about a mile distant, 
being situated near the junction of the rivers Bey and Lieve. It is supposed to 
have been a settlement of the Alans, and that the dog, in the arms of the town, 
and of which a fabulous story has been invented, refers to this origin. Then, and 
long afterwards, the sea came up to its walls ; till, about the year 1180, the Hol¬ 
landers, with their characteristic and admirable industry, recovered here a track of 
rich country from the waters ; and it was from the dam which they constructed 
for its defence, and which extends from thence to Sluys, that the town took its 
name. A channel for the waters was made at the same time, two miles in length, 
forming what, for the vessels of that age, was a capacious harbour. The Hollanders, 
b}'- whom this great work was planned and executed, settled there as a colony, 
greatly to the advantage of Flanders, from the earls of which province they ob¬ 
tained, in addition to the common privileges of Flemish subjects, an exemption 
from customs throughout the Flemish territory. In the course of little more than 
thirty years, Damme had become the great emporium of those parts. No other 
part of Europe had advanced so rapidly in civilization as this province. In the 
eighth century it was mostly covered with wood, and so infamous for the robberies 
and murders committed upon those whose ill-fortune led them thither, that it was 
called the merciless forest; in the ninth, when the growing influence of religion 
had mitigated this barbarity, lands were given to any who would settle on them ; 
and in the tenth, when the manufactures to which it owed its early prosperity, and 
its after troubles, were introduced into Ghent, “ a rate of barter was fixed, for want 
of money.” By this rate, two fowls went for one goose, two geese for one pig, three 
lambs for a sheep, and three calves for a cow. In a little time the province was 
intersected with canals, and towns and cities arose and flourished ; many of which, 
though fallen to decay, bear witness still, in the splendour of their public buildings, 
to their former affluence. Ghent was now the seat of its manufactures, Bruges of 


EOUTHEY.] 


THE FIRST NAVAL VICTORY. 


317 


its merchants, and Damme was its port; whither, as to a certain mart, the produce 
of the country, the furs of Hungary, the wines of Gascony and Rochelle, and the 
cloths of England, were brought, and from whence they were distributed to all parts, 
When the French arrived off this harbour, they offered peace to the inhabitants, 
who were wholly incapable of defending themselves against such a force , they ob¬ 
tained the money which they demanded as its price, and then they plundcied the 
place. Not satisfied with this, they proceeded to ravage the country round about; 
and the sailors, as well as land forces, were thus employed, when the English fleet, 
cruising in search of their enemy, approached. The English, as they neared the 
coast, espied many ships lying without the haven, which, capacious as it was, was 
not large enough to contain them all; many therefore, were riding at anchor with¬ 
out the haven’s mouth, and along the coast. Shallops were presently sent out to 
espy whether they were friends or enemies ; and if enemies, what their strength, 
and in what order they lay. These espials, approaching as if they had been fisher¬ 
men, came near enough to ascertain that the ships were left without sufficient hands 
to defend them ; and, hastening back, told the commanders that the victory was 
in their hands, if they would only make good speed. No time was lost ; they made 
sail toward the enemy, and won the “ tall ships ” which were riding at anchor, with 
little difficulty, the men on board only requesting that their lives might be spared. 
The smaller ones, which were left dry when the tide was low, they spoiled of what¬ 
ever was useful, and set on fire, the sailors escaping to the shore. This done, they 
set upon those that lay in the harbour, within the haven ; and “ here was nard 
hold for a while,” because of the narrowness of the place, allowing no advantage for 
numbers or for skill. “And those Frenchmen” says the chronicler, “that were 
gone abroad into the country, perceiving that the enemies were come, by the running 
away of the mariners, returned with all speed to their ships to aid their fellows, and 
so made valiant resistance for a time ; till the Englishmen, getting on board, and 


ranging themselves on either side of the haven, beat the Frenchmen so on the 
sides, and, the ships grappling together in front, that they fought as it had been 

_ _ i i 1 /\ X- n 1->I a a niiarniu t ho T AVPP 


in a pitched field, till that, finally, the Frenchmen were not able to sustain the force 
of the Englishmen, but were constrained, after long fight and great slaughter, to 

yield themselves prisoners ” , „ ^ , 

The first act of the conquerors was to give thanks to God for their victoiy. I ej 
then manned three hundred of the prizes , which were laden with corn, wine oil 


and other provisions, and with military stores, and sent them to England ; the first 
fruits of that maritime superiority for which the church bells of this glorious island 


have so often pealed with joy. An hundred more were burnt, because they were 
drawn up so far upon the sands, that they could not be got out, without more 
hands and cost of time than could be spared for them. There still remained a 
o-reat part of the enemy’s fleet, higher up the harbour, and protected by the town 
in which Philip had left a sufficient force to protect the stores which he had left 
there, and the money for the payment of his troops. The English landed, the Ear 
of Flanders joined them, and they proceeded to attack the place ; but by this theie 
had been sufficient time for the French king to hasten, with an overpowering force, 
from the siege of Ghent. The English and their allies sustained a sharp action, 
and were compelled to retreat to their ships, with a loss, computed by the French 
at 2 000 men. But they retreated no farther than to the near shores of the Isle of 
Walcheren ; and Philip saw the impossibility of saving the remainder of his fleet, 
considering the unskilfulness of his own seamen, as well as other things. He set 
fire to them therefore, himself, that they might not fall into the enemy s hands. 
Such was the fate of that great naval armament, which is said to be the first French 
fleet mentioned in history; and, as if the unfortunate town of Damme, which he 












HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


318 


[SOUTH FY. 


had promised not to injure, and the foreign merchants to whom his word was 
pledged, had not suffered enough by the previous spoil, he set the place on fire 
also, and it was consumed : and he wasted the country round with fire. 


90.—THE LAST DAYS OF JOHN. 

Burke. 

By his last concessions to the barons it must be confessed John was effectually 
dethroned, and with all the circumstances of indignity which could be imagined. 
He had refused to govern as a lawful prince, and he saw himself deprived of even 
his legal authority. He became of no sort of consequence in his kingdom ; he was 
held in universal contempt and derision ; he fell into a profound melancholy. It 
was in vain that he had recourse to the pope, whose power he had found sufficient 
to reduce, but not to support him. The censures of the holy see, which had been 
fulminated at his desire, were little regarded by the barons, or even by the clergy, 
supported in this resistance by the firmness of their archbishops, who acted with 
great vigour in the cause of the barons, and even delivered into their hands the 
fortress of Rochester, one of the most important places in the kingdom. After 
much meditation, the king at last resolved upon a measure of the most extreme 
kind, extorted by shame, revenge, and despair ; but, considering the disposition of 
the time, much the most effectual that could be chosen. He dispatched emissaries 
into France, into the Low Countries and Germany, to raise men for his service. 
He had recourse to the same measures to bring his kingdom to obedience, which 
his predecessor William had used to conquer it. He promised to the adventurers 
in his quarrel the lands of the rebellious barons ; and it is said, even empowered 
his agents to make charters of the estates of several particulars. The utmost 
success attended these negotiations, in an age when Europe abounded with a war¬ 
like and poor nobility ; with younger brothers, for whom there was no provision 
in regular armies, who seldom entered into the church, and never applied them¬ 
selves to commerce ; and when every considerable family was surrounded by an 
innumerable multitude of retainers and dependants, idle, and greedy of war and 
pillage. The Crusade had universally diffused a spirit of adventure ; and if any 
adventure had the pope’s approbation, it was sure to have a number of followers. 

John waited the effect of his measures. He kept up no longer the solemn 
mockery of a court, in which a degraded king must always have been the lowest 
object. He retired to the Isle of Wight ; his only companions were sailors and 
fishermen, among whom he became extremely popular.* Never was he more to be 
dreaded than in this sullen retreat, whilst the barons amused themselves by idle 
jests, and vain conjectures on his conduct. Such was the strange want of foresight 
in that barbarous age, and such the total neglect of design in their affairs, that the 
barons, when they had got the charter, which was weakened even by the force by 
which it was obtained, and the great power which it granted, set no watch upon the 
king ; seemed to have no intelligence of the great and open machinations, which 
were carrying on against them, and had made no sort of dispositions for their 
defence. They spent their time in tournaments and bear-baitings, and other 
diversions suited to the fierce rusticity of their manners. At length the storm 
broke forth, and found them utterly unprovided. The papal excommunication, the 
indignation of their prince, and a vast army of lawless and bold adventurers, were 
poured down at once upon their heads. Such numbers were engaged in this enter¬ 
prise, that forty thousand are said to have perished at sea. Yet a number still 
remained sufficient to compose two great armies : one of which, with the enraged 

* This was the common opinion.—See the article “ Runnemede,” page 314. Ed. 



THE LAST DAYS OF JOHN. 


319 


BURKE.] 


king at its head, ravaged without mercy the north of England ; whilst the other 
turned all the west to a like scene of blood and desolation. The memory of 
Stephen’s wars was renewed with every image of horror, misery, and crime. The 
barons, dispersed and trembling in their castles, waited who should fall the next 
victim. They had no army able to keep the field. The archbishop, on whom they 
had great reliance, was suspended from his functions. There was no hope even 
from submission : the king could not fulfil his engagements to his foreign troops 
at a cheaper rate than the utter ruin of his barons. In these circumstances of 
despair they resolved to have recourse to Philip, the ancient enemy of their country. 
Throwing off all allegiance to John, they agreed to accept Lewis, the son of that 
monarch, as their king. Philip had once more an opportunity of bringing the 
crown of England into his family, and he readily embraced it. He immediately 
sent his son into England with seven hundred ships, and slighted the menaces and 
excommunication of the pope, to attain the same object for which he had formerly 
aimed to support and execute them. The affairs of the barons assumed quite a 
new face by this reinforcement, and their rise was as sudden and striking as their 
fall. The foreign army of King John, without discipline, pay or order, ruined and 
wasted in the midst of its successes, was little able to oppose the natural force of 
the country, called forth and recruited by so considerable a succour. Besides, the 
French troops, who served under John, and made a great part of his army, imme¬ 
diately went over to the enemy, unwilling to serve against their sovereign in a 
cause which now began to look desperate. The son of the King of France was 
acknowledged in London, and received the homage of all ranks of men. John, thus 
deserted, had no other ally than the pope, who indeed served him to the utmost of 
his power ; but with arms, to which the circumstances of the time alone can give 
any force. He excommunicated Lewis and his adherents ; he laid England under 
an" interdict ; he threatened the King of France himself with the same sentence ; 
"but Philip continued firm, and the interdict had little effect in England. Cardinal 
Langton, by his remarkable address, by his interest in the sacred college, and his 
prudent submissions, had been restored to the exercise of his office ; but steady to 
the cause he had first espoused, he made use of the recovery of his authority, to 
carry on his old designs against the king and the pope. He celebrated divine service 
in spite of the interdict; and by his influence and example taught others to despise 
it. The king, thus deserted, and now only solicitous for his personal safety, 
rambled, or rather fled from place to place at the head of a small party. He was 
in great danger in passing a marsh in Norfolk, in which he lost the greatest part of 
his baggage, and his most valuable effects. With difficulty he escaped to the monas¬ 
tery of Swinestead ; where, violently agitated by grief and disappointments, his late 
fatigue the use and of an improper diet, threw him into a fever, of which he died 
in a few days at Newark, not without suspicion of poison, after a reign, or rather a 
struggle to reign, for eighteen years, the most turbulent and calamitous both to king 
and people, of any that are recorded in the English history. 

It may not be improper to pause here for a few moments and to consider a litt e 
more minutely the causes, which had produced the grand revolution in favour of 
liberty, by which this reign was distinguished ; and to draw all the circumstances, 
which led to this remarkable event, into a single point of view. Since the death of 
Edward the Confessor only two princes succeeded to the crown upon undisputed 
titles. William the Conqueror established his by force of arms. His successors 
were obliged to court the people by yielding many of the prerogatives of-the crown ; 
but they supported a dubious title by a vigorous administration ; and recovered by 
their policy, in the course of their reign, what the necessity of their affairs obliged 
them to relinquish for the establishment of their power. Thus was the nation kept 







320 HALF-HOURS OE ENGLISH HISTORY. [BURKE. 

continually fluctuating between freedom and servitude. But the principles of 
freedom were predominant, though the thing itself was not yet fully formed. The 
continual struggle of the clergy for the ecclesiastical liberties laid open at the same 
time the natural claims of the people ; and the clergy were obliged to shew some 
respect for these claims, in order to add strength to their own party. A he con¬ 
cessions which Henry the Second maae to the ecclesiastics on the death of Becket, 
which were afterwards confirmed by Bichard the First, gave a grievous blow to ihe 
authority of the Crown ; as thereby an order of so much power and influence 
triumphed over it in many essential points. The latter of these princes brought it 
very low by the whole tenor of his conduct. Always abroad, the royal authority 
was felt in its full vigour without being supported by the dignity, or softened by 
the graciousness of the royal presence. Always in war, he considered his dominions 
only as a resource for his armies. The demesnes of the crown were squandered. 
Every office in the state was made vile by being sold. Excessive grants, followed 
by violent and arbitrary resumptions, tore to pieces the whole contexture of the 
government. The civil tumults, which arose in that king’s absence, showed that 
the king’s lieutenants at least might be disobeyed with impunity. 

Then came John to the crown. The arbitrary taxes which he imposed very 
early in his reign, which offended even more by the improper use made of them 
than their irregularity, irritated the people extremely, and joined with all the pre¬ 
ceding causes to make his government contemptible. Henry the Second, during 
his contests with the church, had the address to preserve the barons in his in¬ 
terests. Afterwards, when the barons had joined in the rebellion of his children, 
this wise prince found means to secure the bishops and ecclesiastics. But John 
drew upon himself at once the hatred of all orders of his subjects. His struggle 
with the pope weakened him ; his submission to the pope weakened him yet more. 
The loss of his foreign territories, besides what he lost along with them in reputa¬ 
tion, made him entirely dependent upon England ; whereas his predecessors made 
one part of their territories subservient to the preservation of their authority in 
another, where it was endangered. Add to all these causes, the personal character 
of the king, in which there was nothing uniform or sincere, and which introduced 
the like unsteadiness into all his government. He was indolent, yet restless in his 
disposition ; fond of working b} r violent methods, without any vigour ; boastful, 
but continually betraying his fears ; showing on all occasions, such a desire of 
peace as hindered him from ever enjoying it. Having no spirit of order he never 
looked forward ; content by any temporary expedient to extricate himself from a 
present difficulty. Rash, arrogant, perfidious, irreligious, unquiet, he made a toler¬ 
able head of a party, but a x bad king ; and had talents fit to disturb another’s go¬ 
vernment, not to support his own. A most striking contrast presents itself between 
the conduct and fortune of John, and his adversary Philip. Philip came to the 
crown when many of the provinces of France, by being in the hands of too power¬ 
ful vassals, were in a manner dismembered from the kingdom ; the royal authority 
was very low in what remained. He reunited to the crown a country as valuable 
as what belonged to it before ; he reduced his subjects of all orders to a stricter 
obedience than they had given to his predecessors. He withstood the papal usur¬ 
pation, and yet used it as an instrument of his designs ; whilst John, who in¬ 
herited a great territory, and an entire prerogative, by his vices and weakness gavo 
up his independency to the pope, his prerogative to his subjects, and a large part 
of his dominions to the king of France. 


*HAKSPERK.] 


THE DEATH OF JOHN. 


321 


91.—THE DEATH OF JOHN. 


Shakspere. 

Scene I .—An open Place in the Neighbourhood of Swinstead Abbey. 

Enter the Bastard and Hubert meeting. 


Hub. Who’s there ? speak, ho ! speak quickly, or I shoot. 
Bast. A friend.—What art thou ? 

Hub. Of the part of England. 

Bast. Whither dost thou go ? 

Hub. What’s that to thee I 

Why may I not demand of thine affairs, 
i well as thou of mine ? 

Bast. Hubert, I think. 

Hub. Thou hast a perfect thought; 
will, upon all hazards, well believe 
Thou art my friend, that know’st my tongue so well: 

Who art thou ? 

Bast. Who thou wilt: an if thou please, 

Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think 
I come one way of the Plantagenets. 

Hub. Unkind remembrance ! thou, and endless night, 
Have done me shame:—Brave soldier, pardon me, 

That any accent, breaking from thy tongue, 

Should ’scape the true acquaintance of mine ear. 

Bast. Come, come ; sans compliment, what news abroad ? 
Hub. Why, here walk I, in the black brow of night, 

To find you out. 

Bast. Brief, then ; and what’s the news ? 

Hub. O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night, 

Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible. 

Bast. Show me the very wound of this ill news ; 

I am no woman, I’ll not swoon at it. 

Hub. The king, I fear, is j>oison’d by a monk : 

I left him almost speechless, and broke out 
To acquaint you with this evil; that you might 
The better arm you to the sudden time, 

Than if you had at leisure known of this. 

Bast. How did he take it? who did taste to him? 

Hub. A monk, I tell you ; a resolved villain, 

Whose bowels suddenly burst out: the king 
Yet speaks, and, peradventure, may recover. 

Bast. Who didst thou leave to tend his majesty ? 

Hub. Why, know you not ? the lords are all come back, 
And brought prince Henry in their company ; 

At whose request the king hath pardon’d them, 

And they are all about his majesty. 

Bast. Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven, 

And tempt us not to bear above our power! 

I ’ll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night, 

Passing these flats, are taken by the tide, 


Y 












322 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPEPJL 


These Lincoln washes have devoured them ; 

Myself, well mounted, hardly have escap’d. 

Away, before ! conduct me to the king ; 

I doubt he will be dead, or e’er I come. [Exeunt. 

Scene II.— The Orchard of Swinstead Abbey. 

Enter Prince Henry, Salisbury, and Bigot. 

P. lien. It is too late ; the life of all his blood 
Is touch’d corruptibly ; and his pure brain 
(Which some suppose the soul’s frail dwelling-house) 

Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, 

Foretell the ending of mortality. 

Enter Pembroke. 

Pern. His highness yet doth speak ; and holds belief, 

That being brought into the open air 
It would allay the burning quality 
Of that fell poison which assaileth him. 

P. lien. Let him be brought into the orchard here.— 

Doth he still rage ! TJxit Bigot. 

Pem. He is more patient 

Than when you left him ; even now he sung. 

P. Hen. 0 vanity of sickness ! fierce extremes, 

In their continuance, will not feel themselves. 

Death, having prey’d upon the outward parts, 

Leaves them invisible ; and his siege is now 
Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds 
With many legions of strange fantasies ; 

Which, in their throng and press to that last hold, 

Confound themselves. ’T is strange, that death should sing. 

I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, 

Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death ; 

And, from the organ-pipe of frailty, sings 
His soul and body to their lasting rest. 

Sal. Be of good comfort, prince ; for you are born 
To set a form upon that indigest 
Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude. 

Re-enter Bigot and Attendants, who bring in King John in a C: 

K. John. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room; 

It would not out at windows, nor at doors. 

There is so hot a summer in my bosom, 

That all my bowels crumble up to dust • 

I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen 
Upon a parchment; and against this fire 
Do I shrink up. 

P. Hen. How fares your majesty ? 

K. John. Poison’d,—ill fare ;—dead, forsook, cast off: 

And none of you will bid the winter come, 

To thrust his icy fingers in my maw ; 

Nor let my kingdom’s rivers take their course 





BHAKSPERE.] 


THE DEATH OF JOHN. 


Through ray burn’d bosom ; nor entreat the north 
To make his bleak winds kiss ray parched lips, 

And comfort me with cold :—1 do not ask you much, 

I beg cold comfort ; and you are so straight, 

And so ingrateful, you deny me that. 

P. lien. 0, that there were some virtue in my tears. 

That might relieve you ! 

K. John. The salt in them is not. 

Within me is a hell ; and there the poison 
Is, as a fiend, confin’d to tyrannize 
On unrcprievable condemned blood. 

Eater the Bastard . 

Bast. 0, I am scalded with my violent motion, 

And spleen of speed to see your majesty. 

K. John. 0 cousin, thou art come to set mine eye 
The tackle of mine heart is crack’d and burnt 
And ail the shrouds, wherewith my life should sail, 

Are turned to one thread, one little hail . 

My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, 

Which holds but till thy news be uttered ; 

And then all this thou secst is but a clod, 

And module of confounded royalty. 

Bast. The dauphin is preparing hitherward ; 

Where, heaven he knows how we shall answer him : 

For, in a night, the best part of my power, 

As I upon advantage did remo\e, 

Were in the washes, all unwarily 
Devoured by the unexpected flood. . 

Sal You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear.- 
Mv lic^e 1 my lord !—But now a king—now thus. 

P. lien. Even so must I run on, and even so stop. 
VYhat surety of the world, what hope, what stay 
When this was now a king, and now is clay ! 

Bast. Art thou gone so 1 I do but stay behind 

To do the office for thee of revenge ; 

And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, 

As it on earth hath been thy servant still. 

Now, now, you stars, that move m your right spheres 
Where be your powers ? Show now your mended faiths 
And instantly return with me again, 

To push destruction, and perpetual shame, 

Out of the weak door of our fainting land : 

Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought, 

The dauphin rages at our very heels. 

Sal. It seems, you know not then so much as we 
The cardinal Pandulph is within at rest, 

Who half an hour since came from the dauphin , 

And brings from him such offers of our peace 
As we with honour and respect may take, 

With purpose presently to leave this war. 

Bast. lie will the rather do it, when he sees 
Ourselves well sinewed to our defence. 


323 









HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE 


321 

Sid. Nay, it is in a manner done already; 

For many carriages he hath despatch’d 
To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel 
To the disposing of the cardinal. 

With whom yourself, myself, and other lords, 

If you think meet, this afternoon will post 
To consummate this business happily. 

Bast. Let it be so :—And you, my noble prince. 

With other princes that may best be spar’d, 

Shall wait upon your father’s funeral. 

P. Hen. At Worcester must his body be interr’d; 

For so he will’d it. 

Bast. Thither shall it then. 

And happily may your sweet self put on 
The lineal state and glory of the land ! 

To whom, with all submission, on my knee, 

I do bequeath my faithful services 
And true subjection everlastingly. 

Sal. And the like tender of our love we make, 

To rest without a spot for evermore. 

P. Hen. I have a kind soul, that would give you thanks, 

And knows not how to do it, but with tears. 

Bast. 0, let us pay the time but needful woe, 

Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs.— 

This England never did, nor never shall, 

Lie at the proud feet of a conqueror, 

But when it first did help to wound itself. 

Now these her princes are come home again, 

Come the three corners of the world in arms, 

And we shall shock them : Nought shall make us rue, 

If England to itself do rest but true. [ Exeunt. 


92.—THE ANNALS OF HENRY III. 

From the ‘ Penny Cyclopaedia.’ 

Henry III., surnamed of Winchester, from the place of his birth, was the eldest 
son of king John, by his queen Isabella of Angouleme, and was born 1st October 
1206. His father having died 18th October, 1216, the boy was chiefly through 
the influence of tlm earl of Pembroke, lord marshal, acknowledged heir to the 
throne by those of file barons who were opposed to the French party ; and on the 
28th he was solemnly crowned in the abbey-church of St. Peter, at Gloucester, by 
the papal legate Gualo. His reign is reckoned from that day. 

On the 11th November following, at a great council held at Bristol, Pembroke 
was appointed protector or governor of the king and kingdom (Rector Regis et Regni); 
und this able and excellent nobleman continued at the head of affairs till his death 
in May, 1219 ; long before which event the dauphin Louis and the French had 
Deem compelled to quit the country, their evacuation having been finally arranged 
In a conference held at Kingston 11th September, 1217. After the death of Pem¬ 
broke the administration of the government fell into the hands of Hubert de Buro-h 
who had greatly distinguished himself in the expulsion of the foreigners and Peter 
des Roches, bishop of Winchester. De Burgh however and the bishop, who was 



THE ANNALS OF HENRY in. 


325 


PENNY CYCLOPAEDIA.] 

not an Englishman, but a native of Poitou, from coadjutors soon became rivals, and 
their attempts to throw each other dovm at length led, in 1224, to the resignation 
of Des Roches and his retirement from tlie^kingdom. Meanwhile, on the 17th May, 
1220, Henry, in consequence of some doubts being entertained about the efficacy 
of the former ceremony, had been crowned a second time at Westminster, by Lang- 
ton, archbishop of Canterbury. In 1221 the relations of peace and alliance with 
Scotland, which had subsisted ever since the departure of the French, were made 
closer and firmer by the marriages of Alexander II., the king of that country, with 
Jane, Henry’s eldest sister, and of He Burgh with the Princess Margaret, the eldest 
sister of Alexander. About the same time Pandulf, who had succeeded Gualo as 
papal legate, left the country, which was thus practically freed from the domination 
of Rome, although that power still persisted in asserting theoretically the vassalage 
of the crown which had been originally conceded by John, and which had also been 
acknowledged at his accession by the present king. 

In 1222 Henry had been declared of age to exercise at least certain of the func¬ 
tions of government ; but his feeble character was already become sufficiently ap¬ 
parent, and this formality gave him no real power. It only served to enable De 
Burgh the more easily to get rid of his colleague. That minister, now left alone 
at the head of affairs, conducted the government with ability and success on the 
whole, though in a spirit of severity, which, whether necessary or not, could not 
fail to make him many enemies. A war broke out with France in 1225, which 
however was carried on with little spirit on either side, and produced no events of 
note, although Henry, in May, 1230, conducted in person an expedition to the 
Continent, from which great things were expected by himself and his subjects ; but 
he returned home in the following October, without having done anything. At this 
time France was suffering under the usual weakness and distraction of a regal 
minority, Louis IX., afterwards designated St. Louis, having, while yet only in his 
twelfth year, succeeded his father in 1226. A growing opposition to Dc Burgh was 
at length headed by Richard, earl of Cornwall, the king’s brother, who possessed 
very great influence, not only from his nearness to the throne, but from his im¬ 
mense wealth ; and the consequence was the sudden expulsion of that minister 
from all his offices, and his consignment to prison, with the loss of all his honours 
and estates, in the latter part of the' year 1232. Des Roches, the bishop of Win¬ 
chester, who had returned to the country some time before this crisis, was now 
placed at the head of affairs ; but his administration, a course of insulting pre¬ 
ference for his countrymen and other foreigners, and of open hostility to the great 
charter and the whole body of the national liberties, speedily proved unbearably 
distasteful to both barons and commons ; and a confederacy of the laity and the 
clergy, with Edmund, archbishop of Canterbury, at its head, compelled his dismissal 
within little more than a year after his restoration to power. The archbishop now 
became chief minister. In 1236 Henry, being now in his thirtieth year, married 
Eleanor, the daughter of Raymond, count of Provence ; and this connection soon 
gave new and great umbrage to the nation, in consequence of the numbers of her 
relations and countrymen who came over with or followed the queen, and with 
whom she surrounded her weak husband, besides inducing him to gratify their 
rapacity with pensions, estates, honours, and the most lucrative offices in the king¬ 
dom. In the midst of the contests thus occasioned between the crown and the 
nobility, whose meetings for deliberation on national affairs were now commonly 
called parliaments, a renewal of active hostilities with France was brought about 
through a private resentment of Henry’s mother Isabella, who, after the death of 
John, had returned and been re-married to Hugh, count of La Marche, to whom she 
had been espoused before she gave her hand to John : she had instigated La Marche 








3 26 


HALF-HOUR,S OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[PFNNY CYCLOPAEDIA. 

to insult and defy Alphonse, count of Poitou, the brother of the French king, after 
doing homage to him, and had then prevailed upon her son, the king of England, 
to take her part in the war with France that ensued. Henry again sailed for the 
Continent; but this expedition was still more unfortunate and disgraceful than the 
former : after being beaten by Louis in a succession of actions, he was glad to get 
home again, with the loss of army, money, baggage, and everything. A new truce 
for five years was then agreed to between the two countries. 

These events of course did not tend to put the nation in better humour with 
the king, or to dispose the parliament to greater liberality. The contest with the 
crown however ended for the present in an attempt on the part of Plenry to govern 
by the prerogative, which was so far successful that no effective resistance was 
made to it for many years. In the pressure of his embarrassments he several 
times reassembled the legislative body, but no accommodation was effected by these 
advances ; the parliament was found as impracticable as ever, and the king re¬ 
sumed his arbitrary courses. In 1 253 he succeeded in obtaining a grant of money 
by consenting to a solemn ratification of the great charters ; a ceremony which had 
already been repeatedly performed in the course of the reign ; and this enabled 
him to proceed at the head of a military force to Guienne, where a revolt against 
the English dominion had been excited by Alphonso, king of Castile. The dispute 
was soon settled by the arrangement of a marriage between Henry’s eldest son 
Prince Edward, and Eleanor, the sister of Alphonso. After this Henry engaged in 
a project which speedily involved him in a complication of difficulties—the ac¬ 
ceptance of the nominal crown of Sicily for his second son Edmund, from pope 
Innocent IV., who pretended to have it at his disposal in consequence of Frederick 
II., the late king, having died (a.d. 1250) in a state of excommunication, and who 
had ever since been hawking about the empty title among the princes of Europe, 
without finding any one simple enough to close with his proposals till he applied 
to the king of England. The exorbitant extent to which Henry was forced to carry 
his exactions in order to meet his engagements with the pontiff raised a spirit of 
resistance, which grew stronger and stronger, till it broke out into an open revolt 
against the supremacy of the crown. What is called by most of the old chroniclers 
‘ the mad parliament’ assembled at Oxford, 11 oh June, 1258, by adjournment 
from Westminster, where it had met on the 2nd of May previous ; and placed the 
whole authority of the state in the hands of a committee of government, consisting 
of twelve persons appointed by the barons and as many by the king. The leader 
of the barons on this occasion was the famous Simon de Montfort, who was a French¬ 
man by birth, being the youngest son of the Count de Montfort, but who, in right 
of his mother, had succeeded to the English earldom of Leicester, and had so long 
ago as the year 1238 married Eleanor, countess dowager of Pembroke, and sister 
of king Henry. After the enjoyment however of a long course of court favour he 
had quarrelled with and been insulted by his'royal brother-in-law in 1252 and 
although they had been apparently reconciled, it is probable that the feelings then 
excited had never been extinguished in either. From the imperfect accounts and 
the partial temper of the annalists of the time, it is difficult to obtain a clear view 
of De Montfort’s character and objects ; but if his position may be reasonably sus¬ 
pected to have acted upon him with its natural temptations, and led him to form 
designs more ambitious than he could venture openly to profess, it must be ad 
mitted that he stands remarkably free from any well-established or even probable 
imputation affecting his actual conduct, and that he was undoubtedly a person both 
of eminent ability and of many excellent as well as popular moral qualities. His 
cause was also undoubtedly in the main that of the national liberties, and he ap¬ 
pears to have had throughout the national voice and heart with him. He and his 


PENNY CYCLOPAEDIA.] 


THE ANNALS OF HENRY III. 


327 


friends soon contrived to monopolize the whole power of the committee of govern¬ 
ment and compelled the principal nominees of the king not only to relinquish their 
functions, but to fly from the kingdom. Dimensions now however broke out in 
the dominant party, and De Montfort found a rival aspirant to the supreme power 
in another of the great barons, Richard de Clare earl of Gloucester, The q«anek 
the adverse factions enabled Henry, in the beginning of the year} 2G |’> e par 
to throw off the authority of the committee of government; and although the par 
liamentary party was on this occasion joined by Prince Edward was for the pre¬ 
sent effectually put down, De Montfort himself being obliged ti takei ref g 
France He returned however in April, 1263, and being now supported by G lbert, 
earl of Gloucester, the son of his late rival, proceeded to prosecute his quarrel with 
the crown by force of arms. Henry had now Ins son Edward on his side , but the 

success of the insurgents nevertheless was such as to thr e, at ™ 4 ’f “rfi'the inter- 
throw of the royal power, when an accommodation was effected through the inter 

ference°of the king’s yotmger brother, Richard, earl of Cornwa1 call*^ King of the 
Romans, to which dignity he had been elected a few years befoie. Jh® result was 
to place De Montfort and his friends once more at the head of affairs, the ki 0 
being reduced to a cipher, or a mere puppet in their hands. Inthe coume of a few 
months however we find the war between the two parties renewed.. The cm test 
of arms was suspended for a short time in the beginning of the following year 
1 1 2641 bv an appeal on the part of a number of the most influential barons and 
bishops to the arbitration of Louis IX. of France ; but his award,™ '“P°“ 
the whole favourable to Henry, was very soon disregarded On the 14th of May 

Of the great “Header. adhe- 

ever, it is said, la. < J measures for the restoration of the royal autho- 

1265, Prince Edward coiiUived to 
Iity, When, on tne mi y earl 0 f Gloucester, who had now 

make his escape C^an<1 to jomto ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

^dt: in W e ?his even tmediately led to the renewal of the war On 
gave brilliant pi oof of t _y wit h immense slaughter, De 

was thrown down in one^of the <*. ^ ^ hewa3 , H arry of Winches- 

teT'whenhfe voice was heard by reestablished 

Prince Edward, in vanous paits o i e » ’ passed an Act of Concord, known 
Even after the parliament, m c o ier, ’ , ^icb easy terms of pardon were 

sassifJsiSSSfiSS.’a-sisa 









328 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [PENNY CYCLOPAEDIA. 

drawing the sword, and was glad to obtain pardon through the mediation of the 
king of the Romans, leaving his followers to their fate. A final anangement was 
at last effected in a parliament which met at Marlborough on the 18th of November. 
The short remainder of the reign of Henry after this date passed without distur¬ 
bance, or any remarkable events. His son Edward, leaving every thing tranquil, 
set out for the Holy Land in July, 12/0, from which he had not returned when 
Henry died at Westminster on the Feast of St. Edmund, being the 16th of November, 
1272, in the sixty-seventh year of his age, and the fifty-seventh of his reign. 

The reign of Henry III. is especially memorable in the history of the constitu¬ 
tion as affording us the first distinct example of a parliament constituted as at 
present, of representatives from the counties, cities, and boroughs, as well as of the 
barons and higher clergy, or great tenants of the crown, lay and ecclesiastical. The 
assembly in question met at London, 22nd January, 1265, having been summoned 
in the name of king Henry, while he was in the hands of De Montfort, a few weeks 
before. Hence this great leader of the barons has been regarded as the introducer 
of the principle of popular representation into the English constitution, and the 
founder of the House of Commons. 

Our statute law also begins with this reign—the earliest enactment on the statute- 
book being that entitled the £ Provisions of Merton,’ passed in the 20th year of 
Henry III., a.d. 1235-6. 


93.—THE DEFENCE OF DOVER CASTLE. 

Southey. 

The death of king John was a happy event for the nation, though he left a child 
of nine years old to succeed him. In most of the barons, who so often combined 
against him, there had been far more of personal animosity than of principle, * * 
more, perhaps, even than of personal views. But a child was an object of com¬ 
passion ; and they who already repented of having called in a foreign enemy were 
no longer withheld by hatred or by shame from following their English feelings, and 
taking the better part. Louis’s tide of fortune began to ebb, when a force of 300 
knights, with a great body of soldiers, embarked at Calais for his support, in a fleet 
consisting of eighty great ships and many smaller vessels, commanded by Eustace 
the monk. This man who was a Fleming by birth, had left his monastery to 
enjoy a patrimony which fell to him by the death of his brothers ; that patrimony 
he appears to have dissipated ; afterwards “ he became a notable pirate, and had 
done in his days much mischief to the Englishmen.” The English government 
received timely intelligence of this expected succour to the enemy ; and, accordingly 
Philip de Albany and John Marshal were appointed to collect the power of the 
Cinque ports, and guard the seas against them. With the aid of Hubert de Burgh, 
earl of Kent, then residing in the castle of Dover, they had not yet mustered more 
than forty vessels, great and small, on St. Bartholomew’s dav, when the French 
sailed, meaning to go up the Thames, and make for London. Not deterred by the 
inferiority of their forces, the English commanders put to sea, and encountered 
them ; then gained the weather-gage, and, £ ‘ by tilting at them with the iron beaks 
of their galleys, sunk several of the transports with all on board. They availed 
themselves of the wind also to try, with success, a new and singular mode of 
annoyance ; for, having provided a number of vessels on their decks, filled with 
unslaked lime, and pouring water into them when they were at just distance, and 
in a favourable position, the smoke was driven into the enemies’ faces,” so as to 
lisable them from defending themselves, while the archers and cross-bowmen aimed 




SOUTHEY.] 


THE DEFENCE OF DOVER CASTLE. 


329 


their destructive weapons with dreadful effect. Eustace, the monk, was found 
after long search hid in the hold of one of the captured ships : he offeied a laige sum 
for his ransom, so he might have his life spared, and offered also to enter into the 
service of the English king ; but as he had rendered himself singularly odious, 
Richard, a bastard son of king John, killed him, and sent his head to young Henry 
as a brotherly offering, and as a proof of their important victory. Louis was so 
disheartened by this reverse, that he was glad to make peace upon such terms as 
were proposed to him ; and receiving 15,000 marks for the release of the hostages 
whom the barons, who invited him, had put into his hands, he gave up such strong¬ 
holds as were in his possession, and returned to France. 

A remarkable instance occurred some fifteen years afterwards of the feeling with 
which the people regarded this naval victory, that in its immediate consequences 
had delivered the country from the presence of a foreign foe. In the course of the 
civil commotions, by which the reign of Henry III. was disturbed, Hubert de Burgh 
became an object of persecution to the then prevailing faction ; and being forcibly 
taken from the sanctuary, in which he had sought for protection, at Brentwood a 
smith was sent for to make fetters for him. But when the smith understood that 
it was for Hubert, earl of Kent, he was called upon to perform the ignominious 
office, he refused to do it, uttering, says Speed, such words (if Mathew Paris do no 
poetise) as will show that honourable thoughts are sometimes found in the hearts of 
men whose fortunes are far from honour. For having first drawn a deep sigh e 
said, “ Do with me what ye please, and God have mercy on my soul ; but as t e 
Lord liveth, I will never make iron shackles for him, but will rather die the worst 
death that is. Is not this that Hubert that restored England to England ? He 
who faithfully and constantly served John m Gascony, Normandy, and elsewhere, 
* * whose high courage, when he was reduced to eat horse-flesh, even the enemy 
admired 1 He who so long defended Dover Castle, the key of England against a 
the strong sieges of the French, and by vanquishing them at sea brought safety to 
the kingdom ] God be judge between him and you for using him so unjustly and 
inhumanly ' ” It is to be regretted that this man’s name has not been preserved ; 
none of his contemporaries deserved a more honourable remembrance. It was at 
the risk of his life that he thus obeyed the impulse of an honest heart; and Hubert 
must have felt a prouder and worthier gratification at this brave testimony to his 
services than the largest grant could ever have given him, with which he was 
rewarded in the days of his prosperity. 


94.—SIMON DE MONTFORT. 

Rev. J. White. 

Tn 1 265 the cause of King Henry the Third seemed irremediably lost, and the 
^ the'great Edward the First,) 

bimmard_ in races which tired their horses, and incapacitated them 

taking him in his flight. He soon collected a great force, with which to rescue the 
klng'from' 1 the ^honourable imprisonment in which he wasdetained by Leicester 
That sagacious statesman had endeavoured to counterbalance his opponent, y 
Immoning representatives from the cities and boroughs to the council of the 








330 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [REV. J. WHITE. 

nation, thus constituting a Commons House of Parliament, and took the field 
with the feelings of the great body of the people enlisted on his side. This popu¬ 
larity was not destroyed by his death in the decisive battle of Evesham, which 
soon followed and restored Henry to his throne. His memory was long cheiished 
among the peasantry, under the name of Sir Simon the Righteous ; miiacles were 
believed to be wrought at his tomb ; and, in spite of his having been excommuni¬ 
cated by Rome, great complaints were made against the church for denying him the 
honours of canonization. 

‘ « 

Scene.— A Hall in Simon de Montfart’s Castle. 

De Montfort, De Vesci, De Lucy , Warrenne, Despencer , Gloster, and other Barons. 

Warrenne. You think to let Prince Edward part in freedom ;— 

A knightly deed, high souled and generous, 

Shall set the minstrels singing thro’ all time,— 

Yet we, who have no tower of refuge left 

Like the great name of Montfort,—whose mere sound 

Shall guard you round with walls unpassable— 

Must pause ere we consent. 

De Lucy, and others. ’Tis madness ! treason 

De Montfort. Hold, lords.—You give me a poor choice of names, 

Traitor or madman ;—thank the saints we are friends 
And may speak doughty words yet break no bones. 

I do not think I am mad ;—in fact my faith 
Is that I am rather wise, as wise men go 
In these diseased times ; a man’s no fool 
Who keeps his head and body in one piece 
For fifty years or more, as I have done,—• 

And so we’ll pass the madman : For the treason— 

If we were nimble, quick tongued orators 
We might discuss the point from noon till dawn ;— 

We fought the king at Lewes, hand to hand ;— 

We hold the king a prisoner ; guard his doors 

With sharp-edged swords ; strip him of power and honour, 

Use his great name against his sovran will,— 

And therefore if De Lucy speaks the Law 
’Tis possible the Law might call us traitors. 

De Lucy. ’Tis treason against us. If you set free 
Prince Edward, we are lost ! 

Warrenne. If one must go, 

Release the king ; tie to his feeble flank 
A wooden sword, and paste upon his brow 
A paper crown. 

De Montfort. The name of King would turn 

The lath to hardest steel, and ring with fire 
The trivial forehead till it scorch’d our eyes. 

Ev’n now, though both are prisoners of our swords, 

There is a glory round the Prince’s nature, 

That half enfolds frail Henry in its light ; 

If longer they are pent in the same channel 
Edward’s fresh force will fill the parent stream 


RBV. 


WHITE.’] 


SIMON DE MONTFORT. 


33 L 


With such impetuous gusn, that scarce these boun 
Shall hold the mingled current in its bed ; 

Dispart them ; give the mountain beck its way 
To dash itself ’mid foam on rock and shore, 

But leave the sluggish, lazy, placid river 
Tc hold our argosies, and like the Nile, 

To enrich our fields with its imperial ooze— 

I say Prince Edward shall go free. 

Gloster. s0 > 

I say he shall aby his fathers fate. 

’Twere better yield at once and bend the knee 
At Henry’s throne than trust to Edward s word 

Be Mont fort. I will not ask his word ; he shall go free 
Untrammel’d, uncondition’d. If he is calm 
His calmness shall bring peace to all the realm ; 

If he draw sword, what powers will join his banner, 

Rebellious ’gainst the standard of the king . 

Warrenne. If Leicester’s sinewy hand held not the staff, 

The standard of the king might flap itself 

To ribbands in the all unheedful air. 

Be Montfort. Well sirs, I’ve held ere now the staff i my hand. 

That saved your lordship’s manors and y°^ r ea 
Gloster. And now you’d make a cudgel of that sta 
To beat us to your feet like mongrel hounds . 

If we must wear brass collars on our necks, 

I’ll have a distich carved on mine, Ta e 
This is an English dog and serves his Prince. 

De Montfort. Go fetch and carry, fawn and wag the tail, 

And gnaw the bones his Highness’ hand may throw you ; 

But while I rule the realm,— albeit my blood 
Took not its native course through English veins, 

There shall no English heart have truer love 
To English rights than mine. There may be men 
English in name, in blood, in tongue who yet 
Hold not an English spirit in their thoughts ,— 

Mv lords I deal not in soft, honied phrases. 

And warn you, in short guise, I hold your lordships 
But as I’d hold the plumes that wave and shine 
Above our helm,—the summer breezes sway them 
Rains drench them,—winter tempests mar their hue, 

£oes hack them off-yet stands the helm unscathed. 

You’re but the spear’s gay pennon, not the spear 
You’re but the sword’s gemm’d handle not ‘he sword, 

You’re but the burnished trumpet, not the bieat 
That fills the heart with battle ; think, my 01 s, 

Ere the dread word is said that wakes the giant 
Now stretch’d in dreamy slumber, at whose voice 
Your towers shall crumble as if lightning touch d 
Your shields be shrivell’d as a reed in fire , 

With his unwieldy worship. Righteous fail 









332 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[REV. J. WHITE. 


You’ve lived with priests and penitents so long 
You grow a Seer like them ; where lives the man 
So potent and big limb’d ? 

Be Montfort. Oh ! you shall see him,— 

For when he rises he shall take his way 
Thro’ holt and town until he meets us here. 

You’d scarce suspect how strong and firm his sinews, 

For he bestrides no war horse, wears no arms,— 

But dressed in sober russet or rough serge 
Plods noiselessly on foot— 

De Spencer. I’ll whack the churl 

With my flat blade. How do you name him ? 

Be Montfort. England.— 

Nor crown, nor coronet, blazon, nor belt 
Are England more. The Many rules the Few. 

Enter Mar mi on, hurriedly. 

Marmion. My lords ! the Prince is fled—To wile the time 
He dared his train to essay their courser’s speed; 

With fiery gallop on they sped ;—their reins 
Hung on their horse’s necks, which emulous stretch’d 
To attain the goal;—nor failed the angry spur 
To rouse the lagging steed. The winner’s cheek 
Gathered fresh blood when Edward to his side 
Buckled his sword as prize. Another course 
His highness’ falcon paid ; a third his ring— 

Then when with drooping ears and panting sides 
The victors and the vanquish’d, with slow foot 
Toiled homewards,—springing quick on the black barb 
Which champ’d the bit that bound him to the tree 
Where he had stood while all the sports went on,—- 
“Farewell,” cried Edward, “ tell my lord of Leicester 
“ He shall have payment for his courtesy, 

“ When I’ve had time to sharp the headsman’s axe.” 

Be Montfort. Bid no one follow ? 

Marmion. For a faltering space 

I prick’d to arrest his flight ; but all in vain. 

Be Montfort. What ! my good lords—this frolic prince, methinks 
Scarce finds fit audience for the merry jest— 

Be Lucy. The frolic prince !—when mirth shines on his face 
'Tis like the sunlight on an axe’s blade 
Brightning but softening not. For one so young 
Ne’er saw I brow so hard or heart so cold. 

Be Montfort. Tut ! tut !—the brow grows solemn ’neath the shadow 
Of the rich crown that seems to clasp his head ; 

And for his heart—’tis for his friends to judge, 

Not we who stand like sentinels at the door 
And never felt the warmth that cheers the hearth. 

Warrenne. I knew the eagle would not pine i’ the cage : 

The rushing of his wings will wake the land 
As he affronts the sun with hoodless eye ;— 

Woe to the quarry where his swoop is made 1 


SIMON DE MONTFORT. 


333 


REV. J. WHITE. 


] 


Be Montfort. Let lambs and pouting chickens look to it ! 
There’s ne’er a bird 1 ’ the air but has his match 
Beak against beak. I fear no eagles, I. 

Cheer you, my lords: we have a mightier name 
To gild our cause than king’s or conqueror’s— 

We have the force, the power of the whole land 
Transfused into the millions on its soil ; 

This day the Commons shall be called to Council. 

And woe to him who scorns the Nation’s voice— 

Or Prince or Peer !— 


95.—PARLIAMENTARY REPRESENTATION. 

Haliam. 

The progress of towns in several continental countries, from a condition border¬ 
ing on servitude to wealth and liberty, has more than once attracted our attention 
in other parts of the present work. Their growth in England, both from general 
causes and imitative policy, was very similar and nearly coincident. Undei t e 
Anglo-Saxon line of sovereigns, we scarcely can discover m our scanty records the 
condition of their inhabitants ; except retrospectively fromthe great survey o 
Domesday Book, which displays the state of England under Edward the Confesso . 
Some attention to commerce had been shown by Alfred and Athelstan ; and a mei- 
chant who had made three voyages beyond sea, was raised by a law of the latter 
monarch, to the dignity of a Thane. This privilege was not perhaps often claimed, 
but the burgesses of towns were already a distinct class from the ceorls or rustics, 
and, though hardly free according to our estimation, seem to have laid the founda¬ 
tion of more extensive immunities. It is probable, at least that the English towns 
had made full as great advances towards emancipation as those of France. At the 
conquest, we find the burgesses or inhabitants of towns, living under the superiority 
or protection of the king, or of some other lord to whom they paid annual lem*, 
and determinate dues or customs. Sometimes they belonged to different lords ; 
and sometimes the same burgess paid customs to one master while he was un e 
the jurisdiction of another. They frequently enjoyed special privileges as to in¬ 
heritance ; and in two or three instances they seem to have possessed common 
property, belonging to a sort of guild or corporation ; but never, as fai as appeal s 
by Lny evidence, had they a municipal administration by magistrates o. then ow i 
choice Besides the regular payments, which were in general not heavy, they were 
iaWe to tallages, at the° discretion of their lords This burthen continued for two 
centuries with no limitation, except that the barons were latterly forced to ash 
permission of the king before they set a tallage on their tenants, which was com¬ 
monly done when he imposed one upon his own. Still the towns became consid 
ablv richer • for the profits of their traffic were undiminished by competition ; and 
thefcomKfiousness that they could not be individually 

like the villeins of the country around, inspired an industry aa P™'" a 
which all the rapacity of Norman kings and barons was unable to daunt 

OV Oiie m of the earliest and most important changes in the condition “f tte bu-ge^s 
was the conversion of their individual tributes into a perpetual rent lorn lhe«hoto 
borough The town was then said to be affirmed, or let in fee fail g 

and their successors for ever. Previously to such a grant, tne lord held the town 
tfhi derne “eTnd was the legal proprietor of the soil and tenements ; though 1 
by no means apprehend that the burgesses were destitute ot a ceitain estate m 







334 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[hallam. 


their possessions. But of a town in fee-farm he only kept the superiority, and the 
inheritance of the annual rent, which he might recover by distress. The burgesses 
held their lands by burgage-tenure, nearly analogous to, or rather a species of, free 
socage. Perhaps before the grant they might correspond to modern copy holders. 
It is of some importance to observe, that the lord by such a grant of the town in 
fee-farm, whatever we may think of its previous condition, divested himself of his 
property, or lucrative dominion over the soil, in return for the perpetual rent; so 
that tallages subsequently sot at his own discretion upon the inhabitants, however 
common, can hardly be considered as a just exercise of the rights of proprietorship. 

Under such a system of arbitrary taxation, however, it was evident to the most 
selfish tyrant, that the wealth of his burgesses was his wealth, and their prosperity 
his interest ; much more were liberal and sagacious monarchs, like Henry II., in¬ 
clined to encourage them by privileges. From the time of 'William Rufus, there 
was no reign in which charters were not granted to different towns, of exemption 
from tolls on rivers and at markets, those lighter manacles of feudal tyranny; or 
of commercial franchises ; or of immunity from the ordinary jurisdictions ; or, 
lastly, of internal self-regulation. Thus the original charter of Henry I. to the city 
of London, concedes to the citizens, in addition to valuable commercial and fiscal 
immunities, the right of choosing their own sheriff and justice, to the exclusion of 
every foreign jurisdiction. These grants, however, were not in general so extensive 
till the reign of John. Before that time, the interior arrangement of towns had 
received a new organization. In the Saxon period, we find voluntary associations, 
sometimes religious, sometimes secular ; in some cases for mutual defence against 
injury, in others for mutual relief in poverty. These were called guilds, from the 
Saxon verb gildan, to pay or contribute, and exhibited the natural, if not the legal 
character of corporations. At the time of the conquest, as has been mentioned 
above, such voluntary incorporations of the burgesses possessed in some towns 
either landed property of their own, or rights of superiority over those of others. 
An internal elective government seems to have been required for the administra¬ 
tion of a common revenue, and of other business incident to their association. They 
became more numerous, and more peculiarly commercial after that sera, as well 
from the increase of trade, as through imitation of similar fraternities existing in 
many towns of France. The spirit of monopoly gave strength to those institutions, 
each class of traders forming itself into a body, in order to exclude competition. 
Thus were established the companies in corporate towns, that of the Weavers in 
London being perhaps the earliest ; and these were successively consolidated and 
sanctioned by charters from the crown. In towns not large enough to admit of 
distinct companies, one merchant guild comprehended the traders in general, or 
the chief of them ; and this, from the reign of Henry II. downwards, became the 
subject of incorporating charters. The management of their internal concerns, 
jireviously to any incorporation, fell naturally enough into a sort of oligarchy, 
which the tenor of the charter generally preserved. Though the immunities might 
be very extensive, the powers -were more or less restrained to a small number. 
Except in a few places, the right of choosing magistrates was first given by king 
John ; and certainly must rather be ascribed to his poverty, than to any enlarged 
policy, of which he was utterly incapable. 

From the middle of the twelfth century to that of the thirteenth, the traders of 
England became more and more prosperous. The towns on the southern coast 
exported tin and other metals in exchange for the wines of France ; those on the 
eastern sent corn to Norway; the Cinque-ports bartered wool against the stuffs of 
Flanders. Though bearing'’ no comparison with the cities of Italy or the empire, 
they increased sufficiently to acquire importance at home. That vigorous preroga- 


HALLAM.] 


PARLIAMENTARY REPRESENTATION. 


335 


tivc of the Norman monarch®, which kept down the feudal aristocracy, compensated 
for whatever inferiority there might be in the population and defensible strength of 
the English towns, compared with those on the continent. . They had to fear no 
petty oppressors, no local hostility ; and if they could satisfy the rapacity of the 
crown, were secure from all other grievances. London, far above the rest, our 
ancient and noble capital, might, even in those early times be justly termed a 
member of the political system. This great city, so admirably situated, was nc 
and populous long before the conquest. Bede at the beginning of the eighth cen¬ 
tury, speaks of London as a great market, which traders frequented by land and 
sca^ It paid fifteen thousand pounds out of eightv-two thousand pounds raised >y 
Canute upon the kingdom. If we believe Roger Hovedon the citizens of Lone on 
on the death of Ethelred II., joined with part of the nobility m r ^smg mu c 
Ironside to the throne. Harold I., according to better authority, the Saxo 
Chronicle, and William of Malmsbury, was elected by their concurrency Descenc nig 
to later history, we find them active in the civil war of Stephen and Maalda. The 
famous bishop^of Winchester tells the Londoners, that they are almost accounted 
as nobleman on account of the greatness of their city ; into the community of which 
it appears that some barons had been received. Indeed the citizens themselves or 
at least the principal of them, were called barons. It was certainly by far the 
greatest city in England. There have been different estimates of its population, 

which are extravagant ; but I think it could 
than thirty or forty thousand souls within its walls ; and the suburbs weie very 

porous 7 These numbers, the enjoyment of 

— fi*“KSS ofRmwi 1 

part in deposing Will ^ m of 

its citizens had become, it wa y S , Treasure unsparingly exercised 

parliament. The prerogative of« ? 0 P !“2Sit* to suhmon the 
by Henry III. even over London left the ^ dai)y growing raore 

inhabitants of cities and borou D .. . , t hat 0 f E 11CT land became 

considerable, they were certain - ^"soker m lat^ to emment privilege, 
in the thirteenth centuiy, o Si . . , j ca p; ng them to his parlia- 

Although therefore the object of Snnon de Montfo. tm^ ^ 

ment after the battle of Uaes aas mere 1 otluriaeiou into the legielature 

bearing date 12th of December, 126 ,_m seem to have acquiesced in 

a long controversy, almost a ju > c 'ou , \j fpi, e argument may be very 

•dmitto this origin of popular representation. S 









HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


336 


[HALL AM. 


concisely stated. We find from innumerable records that the king imposed tallages 
upon his demesne towns at discretion. No public instrument previous to the forty- 
ninth of Henry III. names the citizens and burgesses as constituent parts of parlia¬ 
ment ; though prelates, barons, knights, and sometimes free-holders are enumerated; 
while since the undoubted admission of the commons, they are almost invariably 
mentioned. No historian speaks of representatives appearing for the people, or 
uses the word citizen or burgess in describing those present in parliament. Such, 
convincing, though negative,,evidence is not to be invalidated by some general and 
ambiguous phrases, whether in writs and records, or in historians. Those monkish 
annalists are poor authorities upon any point where their language is to be delicately 
measured. But it is hardly possible, that writing circumstantially, as Roger do 
Hoveden and Matthew Paris sometimes did, concerning proceedings in parliament, 
they could have failed to mention the commons in unequivocal expressions, if any 
representatives from that order had actually formed a part of the assembly. 


96.—THE BATTLE OF EVESHAM. 

From “ Old England.” 

When John died, what a state of confusion surrounded his helpless son—Louis 
the French Dauphin in the land with an army of French troops, and supported 
by the chief English barons, who had invited him over as their last refuge 
against John’s tyranny. But a great and good man was then living—Pembroke, 
soon afterwards declared the Protector ; who, collecting together at Gloucester 
the different branches of the royal family, as well as a host of the principal 
men of both political parties, suddenly appeared among them, and placing 
the young Henry, with all due honour and ceremony, before the assembled 
prelates and nobles, said “ Albeit the father of this prince, whom here you see 
before you, for his evil demeanours hath worthily undergone our persecution, yet 
this young child, as he is in years tender, so is he pure and innocent from those 
of his father’s doings,” and so called upon them to appoint him their king and 
governor, and drive the French from the land. The assembly received the speech 
with cordial greeting, and the coronation ceremony was immediately hurried on. 
The crown had been lost in the Wash, so a plain circlet of gold was used. 
Pembroke was appointed the royal guardian, and the governor of the kingdom. 
That appointment saved Henry his throne, and the people of England their 
nationality. Pembroke, who fully appreciated the motives of the disappointed 
barons, caused the Magna Charta to be revised and confirmed, with the view of 
satisfying them, and his character testified to all men that the act was done in good 
faith. The result was soon perceptible in the breaking up of the moral strength of 
the dangerous and unnatural confederacy. Then came the battle, or u Fair,” of 
Lincoln, in 1217, in which the French and English allies were completely over¬ 
thrown ; and when Pembroke, hurrying from the ancient city with its bloodv streets 
the same evening to Stow, was able to assure the trembling boy-king for the first 
time that he was really lord of England. Pembroke dealt firmly but generously 
with the allies, and before long Louis had returned to France, and the barons of 
England were once more united in support of their own monarch. Englishmen could 
again look on one another without rage or humiliation. 

Henry’s marriage with Eleanor, daughter of the Count of Provence, seems to 
mark with tolerable accuracy the period of the commencement of the struggle be¬ 
tween him and his subjects. His minister, the Poictevin bishop, Des Roches, had 
given him a double course of practical instruction as to how he should rule, although 





OLD ENGLAND.] THE BATTLE OF EVESHAM. 337 

the people and the barons so little appreciated their share in the example, that 
they compelled Henry, in 1234, to dismiss him, with a whole host of his country¬ 
men, not only from power, but from the island. Henry comforted himself on his 
marriage by taking Gascons and Provengals into his favour, since they would not 
let him have Poictevins ; and upon them he lavished all possible wealth and 
honours. The barons remonstrated, and the king, wanting money, promised to be¬ 
have better. When he next asked for funds, he was told of broken promises, and 
an oath was exacted. That broken too, the barons became more and more annoy¬ 
ing and disrespectful; charged Henry with extravagance, and at last said in the 
most unmistakable English, they would trust him no longer, and therefore, if he 
wanted them to give him money, he must allow them to add to the gift a few 
public officers of their choice, such as the chief Justiciary, Chancellor, and so on. 
The king thought he would much rather stretch his prerogative a little over those 
especially subject to it, in matters of fine, benevolence, and purveyance ; rob the 
Jews ; and beg from everybody else; and admirably he did all these things. Even 
this hardly sufficed, so in 1248 he again met his barons in parliament, to see what 
they would do for him, but soon left them in disgust; they would provide nothing 
but lectures upon his past conduct, and advice as to his future ; except, indeed, 
on their own conditions. That there were men in England who neither could nor 
would endure such government was to be expected ; but one’s admiration is espe¬ 
cially warmed to find there were English women who could tell the.king plain truths 
in plain words. The young widowed Countess of Arundel having failed to obtain 
what she alleged to be hers in equity, thus addressed him before his court: “ 0, 
my lord king, why do you turn away from justice 1 We cannot now obtain that 
which is right in your court. You are placed as a mean between God and us, but 
you neither govern us nor yourself, neither dread you to vex the church diversely, 
as is not only felt in present, but hath been heretofore. Moreover, you doubt not 
manifoldly to afflict the nobles of the kingdom.” Henry listened with a scornful 
and angry look, and then cried out in a loud voice, “ 0, my lady countess, what l 
have the lords of England, because you have a tongue at will, made a charter, and 
hired you to be their orator and advocate ?” But the lady had as much wit and 
presence of mind as courage, and answered, “ Not so, my lord ; for they have made 
to me no charter. But that charter which your father made, and yourself con¬ 
firmed, swearing to keep the same inviolably and constantly, and often extorting 
money upon the promise that the liberties therein contained should be faithfully 
observed, you have not kept, but, without regard to conscience oi honour, bioken. 
Therefore are you found to be a manifest violator of your faith and oath. Eor where 
are the liberties of England, so often fairly engrossed in writing ? so often granted ? 
so often bought ? I, therefore, though a woman, and all the natuial loyal people 
of the land, appeal against you to the tribunal of the fearful judge,” &c. The king was 
overawed, but of course remained unchanged ; and the lady, as Matthew Paris teds 
us, lost her charges, hopes, and travail. When women thus speak, men must begin 
to act. A. confederacy was soon formed, and the barons “ determined to conic, 
strong to Oxford at Saint Barnabas day.” According to their agreement they ap¬ 
peared in an imposing body before the king, “ exquisitely armed, and appointed, 
that so the king and his aliens should be enforced, if they would not willingly 
assent.” Of course their demand was the old demand—the Charter ; but theie 
was a new and very important addendum, that the country should be niled, accord¬ 
ing to its provisions, by twenty-four men, to be then and there chosen by the 
assembly. The leader of the confederated barons was the kings biother-in-law, 
Simon de Montfort, a Frenchman by the father’s side, but in every other lespect 
one of the truest of Englishmen. Before events had shown Henry the loB) and 

z 








338 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[OLD ENGLAND. 

commanding spirit that his oppressions had raised, he had a kind of prescience of 
the fact, which is somewhat remarkable. Being one day, in the month of June, 
in his barge on the Thames, there came on so heavy a storm of rain, thunder, and 
lightning, that Henry impatiently caused himself to be set dow T n at the nearest 
mansion, which happened to be Durham House, where the Earl of Leicester then 
was, De Montfort came forth to meet him, and seeing the king’s alarm, observed, 

“ Sir, why are you afraid 1 the tempest is now past.” Henry, looking at the speaker 
with a troubled and lowering aspect, replied, “ I fear thunder and lightning above 
measure ; but, by the head of God, I do more fear thee than all the thunder and 
lightning of the world.” The quiet dignity of the earl’s reply was admirable :— 
“My liege, it is injurious and incredible that you should stand in fear of me, who 
have always been loyal both to you and your realm, whereas you ought to fear your 
enemies, such as destroy the realm and abuse you with bad counsels.” The war, 
towards which all things had been long tending, at last broke out. In 1264 there met 
at Lewes two great armies, the one headed by the king, and his son Prince Edward, 
who had till recently supported the barons, the other by De Montfort, whose soldiers 
were directed to wear white crosses on their breasts and backs, to show they fought 
for justice. The result was a complete triumph for the popular party ; the king 
was taken prisoner in the battle, and the prince yielded himself also to captivity 
the day after, as a hostage of peace. De Montfort’s pow T er was now supreme over 
England, apd though there appears not the smallest proof that he ill-used it, some 
among his brother nobles grew jealous, especially the earl of Gloucester. By his 
contrivance Prince Edward escaped ; whose address and energy speedily raised 
once more a powerful royalist army. Seldom has a general been placed in a more 
difficult position. His own father was in De Montfort’s hands—the feeling of the 
more enlightened of the people, those resident in the chief towns, was in favohr of 
the “traitors”—above all, the bravest of England’s chivalry were the men who 
had to be overthrown. Through all Edward’s subsequent career, so brilliant in a 
military sense, there is no event that does more credit to his skill than the strategy 
by which he succeeded in placing himself between two bodies of the enemy, pre¬ 
venting them from joining each other, or simultaneously attacking him; and then 
confronting the chief adversary thus shorn of a considerable portion of his strength. 
There appeared, it seems, 

In that black niglit before this sad and dismal day 
Two apparitions strange, as dread heaven would bewray 
The horrors to ensue : Oh most amazing sight! 

Two armies in the air discerned were to fight, 

Which came so near to earth, that in the morn they found 
The piints of horses’ feet remaining on the ground ; 

Which came but as a show, the time to entertain, 

Till the angry armies joined to act the bloody scene. 

Such, according to the Warwickshire poet Drayton, and the old chroniclers, were 
the dire portents by which the great battle of Evesham was preceded. The scene 
of this sanguinary encounter has been thus described in ‘William Shakspere : a 
Biography,’ from personal observation:— 

“ About two miles and a half from Evesham is an elevated point near the village 
of Twyford, where the Alcester Road is crossed by another track. The Avon is not 
more than a mile distant on either hand, for flowing from Offenham to Evesham, a 
distance of about three miles, it encircles that town, returning in nearly a parallel ' 
direction, about the same distance, to Charlbury. The great road, therefore, pass¬ 
ing Alcester to Evesham, continues, after it passes Twyford, through a narrow tongue 






THE BATTLE OF EVESHAM. 


339 


OLD ENGLAND.] 

of land bounded by the Avon, having considerable variety of elevation. Imme¬ 
diately below Twyford is a hollow now called Battlewell, crossing which the road 
ascends to the elevated platform of Greenhill.” Edward, early in the day on the 
4th of August, 1265, appeared on the heights above Evesham. The young soldier 
at the head of the royalists, recently escaped from the custody of the veteran whom 
he is now to oppose, was the prince, burning to revenge his defeat and captivity, 
and to release his father the king. The great object of his manoeuvres was to pre¬ 
vent a junction of the forces under Simon de Montfort and his eldest son. In 
order to effect this it was necessary to keep the old earl on the right bank of the 
Severn, with which view he destroyed all the bridges and boats on that river, and 
secured the fords. But the earl himself was not to be out-manoeuvred by his clever 
young adversary—he managed to cross, and encamped at first near Worcester, 
hoping hourly that his son would join him. But Simon the younger, though he 
does not appear to have been deficient in patriotism or courage, was no match for 
a genius in war like Edward. He was surprised near Kenilworth by night, lost his 
horses and his treasure, and most of his knights, and was compelled to take refuge, 
almost naked, in the castle there, which was the principal residence of the He 
Montfort family. This, though as yet he knew it not, was a death-blow to the 
earl, who, still hoping and expecting with impatience to meet his son, marched on 
to Evesham There he waited, but waited in vain. The day before the fatal 4th, 
no shadow of the truth clouding the confidence he felt in his son, he had solemn 
masses performed in the Abbey Church, and expressed himself well assured that 
his son would join him presently, and that Heaven would uphold his cause against 
a perjured prince. “The next morning he sent his barber Nicholas to the top of 
the abbey tower to look for the succour that was coming over the hills from Kenil¬ 
worth. The barber came down with eager gladness, for he saw, a few miles off, the 
banner of young Simon de Montfort in advance of a mighty host. And again the 
earl sent the barber to the top of the abbey tower, when the man hastily descended 
in fear and horror, for the banner of young De Montfort was no more to be seen, 
but, coming nearer and nearer, were seen the standards of Prince Edward, and of 
Mortimer, and of Gloucester.” 

The danger attending the junction of such powerful personages, the grief and 
disappointment at the evident discomfiture of his son—fifteen of whose standards 
were presently raised in exulting mockery in front of the Boyalist forces on the 
Evesham heights, and apprehension for that son’s fate, must have altogether sorely 
tried the earl, who had the further bitterness of reflecting that Gloucester and his 
powerful father had been with him at the head of the barons, and had deserted him 
merely out of jealousy of his superior popularity. His greatest friend and counsellor 
was now armed to crush him. Under all these painful feelings, and seeing not only 
on the heights before him, but also on either side and in his rear, the heads of 
columns gradually blocking up every road, he exclaimed at once in despair and 
admiration, “ They have learned from me the art of war. And then, install ;ly 
comprehending all that must follow, he is said to have exclaimed, according to one 
writer, “God have our souls all, our days are all done and according to another 
writer, “ Our souls God have, for cur bodies be theirs.” But, had retreat been 
allowed him, he was not the man to avail himself of it. Having marshalled his 
men in the best manner, he spent a short time in prayer, and took the sacrament, 
as was his wont, before going into battle. Having failed in an attempt to force 
the road to Kenilworth, he marched out of Evesham at noon to meet the prince on 
the summit of the hill, having in the midst of his troops the old King Henry, his 
prisoner, encased in armour which concealed his features, and mounted on a war- 
horse. As the battle grew more and more desperate, the earl made his last stand 






340 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [OLD ENGLAND. 

in a solid circle on tlie summit of the hill, and several times repulsed the charges 
of his foes, whose numbers, as compared with his own, were overwhelming. 
Gradually the royalists closed around him, attacking at all points. There was but 
little room, so the slaughter was confined to a small space, and it is fearful to picture 
to one’s self the slow but sure progress of the work of death during that long 
summer afternoon and evening. Every man, valiant as a lion, resolved neither to give 
nor take quarter. In one of the charges the imbecile Henry was dismounted and in 
danger of being slain ; but he *cried out “ Hold your hand ! I am Harry of Win¬ 
chester,” which reaching the ears of the prince, he fought his way to his rescue, 
and succeeded in carrying him out of the m61ee. At length the barons’ forces, 
wearied by the nature of the ground, which compelled them to be the assailants, 
and worn out by the determined resistance of the royalists, wavered in their attacks. 
At the going down of the sun, which they were never more to see setting in that 
western sky, Leicester himself, with his son Henry, and a handful of friends and 
retainers, were struggling on foot against a host of foes, who were animated by the 
exhilarating consciousness that the victory was theirs. And now the scene began 
to close. The earl’s horse was killed under him, but De Montfort rose unhurt from 
the fall, and fought bravely on foot. Hope, however, there was none. It is said, 
that feeling for the brave youth who fought by his side, his son Henry, and for the 
few bravest and best of his friends that were left of all his followers, he stooped his 
great heart to ask the royalists if they gave quarter. “We have no quarter for 
traitors,” was the merciless answer, on which the doomed veteran again exclaimed, 
“ God have mercy upon our souls, our bodies must perish ! ” and rushed amid his 
foes with resolute despair. At last he saw his gallant son Henry fall, his noble 
adherents were then cut to pieces, and, finally, the veteran chief himself dropped, 
his sword still in his hand. The prophecy was verified which had been uttered 
twelve years before by the dying lips of the far-seeing Bishop of Lincoln, Robert 
Grosteste, whose views of the national abuses were as strong as De Montfort’s. 
“ Oh, my dear son,” cried the venerable old man, laying his hands on the head of 
De Montfort’s son Henry, “ you and your father will die on one day, and by the 
same kind of death, but in the cause of truth and justice.” 

The remnant of the defeated army was pursued to Offenham, a mile and a half 
from Evesham, where the slaughter was very great, the bridge having been, probably, 
cut away by the prince’s troops to prevent their retreat. The reservoir now called 
Battlewell is supposed to have been so choked with dead bodies, as to have remained 
long useless to the neighbouring peasantry, but- this seems questionable. The 
bloody contest lasted from two in the afternoon till nine at night. No prisoners 
were taken ; of one hundred and eighty barons and knights of De Montfort’s party, 
there was not one knowingly left alive ; although some ten or twelve of the knights, 
who were afterwards found to breathe when the dead were examined, were permitted 
to live if they could. A more savage, inhuman carnage never disgraced England ; 
or one that inflicted more widely diffused and permanent sentiments of distress 
and horror. These sentiments have found undying record in a ballad written at 
the time in the Anglo-Norman French, which has been thus translated by Mr. 
George Ellis :— 

In song my grief shall find relief; 

Sad is my verse and rude; 

I sing in tears our gentle peers 
Who fell for England’s good. 

Our peace they sought, for us they fought, 

For us thev dared to die ; 

And where they sleep, a mangled heap 
Then wounds for vengeance cry. 



OLD ENGLAND.] 


THE BATTLE OP EVESHAM. 


341 



On Evesham’s plain is Montfort slain, 

Well skill’d he was to guide; 

Where streams his gore shall all deplore: 

Fair England’s flower and pride. 

Ere Tuesday’s sun its course had run 
Our noblest chiefs had bled: 

While rush’d to fight each gallant knight, 
Their dastard vassals fled; 

Still undismay’d, with trenchant blade 
They hew’d their desperate way: 

Not strength or skill to Edward’s will, 

But numbers give the day. 

On Evesham’s plain, <fec. 

Yet by the blow that laid thee low, 

Brave earl, one palm is given ; 

Not less at thine than Becket’s shrine 
Shall rise our vows to heaven ! 

Our church and laws, your common cause . 

’Twas his the church to save, 

Our rights restored, thou, generous lord, 
Shalt triumph in thy grave. 

On Evesham’s plain, &c. 

Despenser true, the good Sir Hugh, 

Our justice and our friend, 

Borne down with wrong, amidst the throng 
Has met his wretched end. 

Sir Henry’s fate need I relate. 

Or Leicester’s gallant son, 

Or many a score of barons more, 

By Gloucester’s hate undone ? 

On Evesham’s plain, <fco. 

Each righteous lord, who brav’d the sword^ 
And for our safety died, 

With conscience pure shall aye endure 
The martyr’d saint beside. 

That martyr’d saint was never faint 
To ease the poor man’s care; 

With gracious will he shall fulfil 
Our just and earnest prayer. 

On Evesham’s plain, &c. 

On Montfort’s breast a haircloth vest 
His pious soul proclaim’d; 

With ruffian hand the ruthless band 
That sacred emblem stain’d : 

And to assuage their impious rage, 

His lifeless corse defaced, 

Whose powerful arm long saved from harm 
The realm his virtues graced, 

On Evesham’s plain, 


Now all draw near, companions dear, 

To Jesus let us pray 

That Montfort’s heir his grace may share. 
And learn to Heaven the way. 









HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


342 


[OLD ENGLAND. 


No priest I name; none, none I blame, 

Nor auglit of ill surmise : 

Yet for the love of Christ above 
pray, be churchmen wise. 

On Evesham’s plain, <fcc. 

No good, I ween, of late is seen 
By earl or baron done; 

Nor knight or squire to fame aspire, 

Or dare disgrace to shun. 

Eaith, truth, are fled, and in their stead 
Do vice and meanness rule; 

E’en on the throne may soon be shown 
A flatterer or a fool. 

On Evesham’s plain, &c. 

Brave martyr’d chief! no more our grief 
For thee or thine shall flow ! 

Among the blest in Heaven ye rest 
From all your toils below. 

But for the few, the gallant crew, 

Who here in bonds remain,* 

Christ condescend their woes to end, 

And break the tyrant’s chain. 

On Evesham’s plain, &c. 

It was a striking evidence of the indestructibility of the principles for which De 
Montfort had fought and perished, that even in the hour of full success the king 
did not dare to revoke the Great Charter ; and when he and a parliament held at 
Winchester passed severe sentences against the family and adherents of De Mont¬ 
fort, he provoked a new resistance, which occupied Prince Edward two years to put 
down. Kenilworth Castle especially resisted all efforts of the besiegers ; and at 
last it became necessary to offer reasonable terms. The “ Dictum de Kenilworth” 
was consequently enacted, and gradually all parties submitted. And thus, ended 
the last armed struggle in England for Magna Charta. 

* The few knights above mentioned who were found still alive among the bodies of the 
slain. 








CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS. 


343 


97.—CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS. 


FROM THE ACCESSION OF THE CONQUEROR TO THE DEATH OF HENRY HI. 


A.D. 

1066 Coronation of William in Westminster Abbey. 

1068 William extends bis conquests to Devonshire, Somersetshire, Gloucestershire, and 
Oxford, and many fortified cities. 

1072 William advances into Scotland; subdues Malcolm III. 

1073 William lays waste Northumbria; Egelwin, Bishop of Durham, retires to Lindisfarne; 

Durham is taken by William and fortified. 

Hugh the Wolf, Earl of Chester, invades North Wales and builds Rhuddlan Castle. 
Hereward raises an insurrection in Lincolnshire, Huntingdon, and Cambridge. The 
English make a fortified camp in the Isle of Ely; William besieges them for three 
months; the monks of Ely betray the camp; the English surrender, but Hereward 
escapes ; he afterwards takes the oath of allegiance to William. 

William takes with him an English army and reduces Maine. 

Edgar Atheling goes to Rouen to William. 

1077-9 Robert of Normandy, William’s eldest son, claims that province ; he is refused ; he 
revolts ; William besieges him in the Castle of Gesberoy ; is wounded by Robert; he 
abandons the siege; Robert is reconciled to the king. 

1085 The Dane-geld again laid on by the king. 

The king lays waste a circumference of ninety miles in Hampshire to make a hunting 
ground. He enacts the forest law's. 

1087 July. William lays siege to Mantes; it is taken and burned ; he receives an injury by 
his horse stumbling ; he is carried to Rouen; removes to the monastery of St. 
Gervas; liberates state prisoners ; bequeathes Normandy to Robert, and gives 5,000/. 
of silver to Henry. 

Sept. 9. Death of William the Conqueror. 

His body is carried to Caen and is buried in St. Stephens church. 

Sept. 26. William Rufus is crowned at Westminster by Lanfranc, archbishop of 

C anterbury. 

The bishop of Bayeux raises an insurrection in England in favour of Robert of 
Normandy. 

The Normans are defeated at sea; Rufus calls the Saxons together; besieges Odo, the 
bishop, in Pevensey Castle; Pevensey and Rochester Castles are surrendered to 

the king. 

1089 Archbishop Lanfranc dies ; Rufus seizes the revenues of Canterbury. 

1091 Jan. Rufus invades Normandy at the head of an English army; a peace is concluded 

and Rufus retains many towns. 

Rufus engages in a war with Malcolm III. of Scotland. 

Nov. 13. Malcolm III. and his son Edward killed at the siege of Alnwick Castle, 
jijov. 16. Queen Margaret his wife, the sister of Edgar Atheling, dies. 

1096 Robert resigns Normandy to Rufus for a sum of money. 

1100 Aug. 1. Rufus is slain by an arrow in the New Forest, shot by Sir Walter Tyrrei. 
Rufus is buried in Winchester Cathedral. 

Aug. 5. Accession of Henry I.; he is crowned in Westminster Abbey by Maurice, 

bishop of London. ... „ , . 

Henry grants a charter of liberties ; restores the rights of the church ; and promises 

to restore the laws of Edward the Confessor. 

Nov. 11. Henry marries Maud, daughter of Malcolm, king of Scots. 

1101 Henry goes to war with some of his barons; siege of Arundel Castle , of Bridgenorth, 

it is captured ; capitulation of Shrewsbury. . „ . 

1106 Henry invades Normandy; lays siege to Tenchebray; Robert marches to its relief; is 
defeated and taken prisoner, and Normandy tails into the possession ot Henry. 







344 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


J*i/ • _ 

1106 Edgar Atheling is taken prisoner at the same place; is brought to England, and a 
pension is allowed him. 

Duke Robert is committed to prison for life; he attempts to escape; is blinded by 
order of Henry. 

1110 Matilda, the daughter of Henry, affianced to Henry V., emperor of Germany, and a 
tax laid on the country to pay the marriage portion. 

1117 Thomas a Becket is born. 

1118 Maud the Good, queen of Henry, dies. 

Henry is engaged in a war with his Norman barons. 

The Order of the Templars founded. 

1120 Nov. 25. Henry sets sail from Barfleur for England. 

The Blanche-nef, the ship in which Prince William embarked, is wrecked and all 
perish. 

1126 Matilda, the widow of the Emperor Henry V., and daughter of Henry I., is declared 

the next heir to the throne. 

1127 Matilda is married to Geoffrey Plantagenet at Rouen. 

1133 Matilda is delivered of a son at Mans, who is afterwards Henry II. of England. 

Henry again causes his barons to swear to support the succession of Matilda and her 
children. 

1135 Robert of Normandy dies in Cardiff Castle. 

Nov. 25. Henry is taken sick while in Normandy. 

Dec. 1. He dies, leaving all his territories to his daughter Matilda. 

Stephen arrives in London, and is acknowledged king by the citizens. 

Dec. 26. He is crowned at Westminster. 

He calls a meeting of the barons and clergy at Oxford, who swear to obey him so long 
as he preserves the church discipline ; the pope confirms his election as king. 
Stephen grants a charter of liberties ; he allows his barons to fortify their castles. 

1136 Stephen goes to Normandy and is received as the lawful successor. 

1137 Robert Earl of Gloucester comes to England; swears fealty to Stephen; raises an 

insurrection in favour of Matilda; is aided by the King of Scots; Norwich and 
other royal castles are taken ; Stephen regains them. 

1138 March. David, king of Scots, invades England. 

Aug. 22. The battle of the Standard is fought at Northallerton. 

1139 Matilda lands in England; Stephen surprises her in Arundel Castle; she is allowed 

to depart; the barons of the north and west join Matilda. 

Stephen defeats the barons at Ely and other places. 

1141 Feb. 2. Robert Earl of Gloucester takes Stephen prisoner before Lincoln. 

March 2. The Bishop of Winchester abandons Stephen, and the following day gives 
his benediction to Matilda in Winchester Cathedral; she assumes royal authority. 
Matilda is driven from London by Queen Maud, and retires to Oxford ; and thence to 
Winchester Castle. 

Aug. 1. The bishop besieges Winchester Castle. 

Sept. 14. Matilda makes her escape from the castle, and reaches Gloucester. 

Her adherents, the Earl of Gloucester, and others are taken prisoners. 

Nov. 1. Stephen is set at liberty in exchange for Robert Earl of Gloucester 
1147 Oct. Robert Earl of Gloucester dies of a fever. 

Matilda quits England. 

1150 Prince Henry succeeds as duke of Anjou. 

1152 Eleanor, wife of Louis VII. of France, is divorced. 

Prince Henry marries her, and attains Poictou, Guienne, and Aquitaine. 

He lands in England with an army; he is met by Stephen at Wallingford ; a truce is 
agreed upon. 

1153 Nov. 7. A peace is concluded at Winchester between Stephen and Prince Henry; the 

latter is adopted as his son ; appointed his successor, and has the kingdom given to 
him after the king’s death. 

i 154 Oct. 25. King Stephen dies, and is buried at Faversham Monastery. 

Dec. Henry arrives in England and enters Winchester. 

Dec. 19. He is crowned with his queen in Westminster Abbey. 







CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS. 


34ft 


A.D. 

1156 Thomas a Bechet is made chancellor of England, preceptor to the prince, and warden 

of the Tower. 

1157 Henry invades Wales; the Welch, after a few months, do homage and give hostages. 
1164 Jan. 25. Bechet and the clergy sign a series of articles rendering the clergy subject to 

the civil courts for felony at Clarendon, in Wiltshire, called the Constitutions of 


Clarendon. 

1167 May. Bechet excommunicates in the church of Vezeley the supporters of the consti¬ 
tutions of Clarendon ; and several of the favourites of Henry. 

1167 Dermond MacMurrough, hing of Leinster, achnowledges himself vassal to Henry, at 
Aquitaine, and Henry grants him protection ; he comes to England; engages with 
Bichard de Clare, earl of Pembrohe, called Strongbow, and Maurice Eitzgerald and 
Bobert Fitzstephen, for aid in his restoration ; returns to Ireland. 

The Empress Matilda dies at Bouen. 

1169 Peace is concluded between the hings of England and France • Henry’s sons do homage 

for their several fiefs, &c. Marriage is agreed between Prince Bichard, and Alice, 
a daughter of Louis. 

Dec. 1. Bechet lands at Sandwich ; proceeds to Canterbury. 

1170 Maurice Fitzgerald arrives from England. Dublin is reduced. 

June 14. Prince Henry is crowned during his father’s lifetime by the Archbishop of 

"York* 

July 22. A congress is held on the borders of Touraine, when Henry and Bechet are 
reconciled. 

Bechet is murdered in St. Augustine’s Church, Canterbury. 

1171 Oct. 18. Henry, attended by Strongbow and a large army, lands at Crooh, near Water¬ 

ford, and receives the submission of many princes and chieftains; all Ireland, ex¬ 
cept Ulster, is subjugated. , , 

i 172 May. Henry is absolved from the murder of Bechet by the pope s legates, at Avranches. 
Prince Henry is again crowned; his consort Margaret, daughter of Louis of Fiance, is 


crowned with him. 

Prince Henry demands the sovereignty of either England or Normandy. 

He flies to the French court. , * 

.173 March. Bichard and Geoffry, the Ping’s other sons, go to the French court, and Queen 

Eleanor abandons her husband, but is retahen and imprisoned. 

Prince Henry is achnowledged sole hing of England by Louis of France; the thre© 
princes swear that they will not mahe peace with Henry without the consent of the 

barons of France. 

Henry declares that England belongs to the jurisdiction of the pope. 

June The war commences in Normandy, but the rebels and invaders are repulsed. 

1174 July 8. Henry returns to England, and lands at Southampton, bringing as prisoners 

his own and Prince Henry’s wife ; does penance at the grave of Bechet. 

He is scourged in the church. . ... . . _ -u 

July 12. Banulph de Glanville tahes William the Lion prisoner with sixty Scottish 

lords. , 

Henry is reconciled to his children, and peace is restored. 

Dec. William the Lion is released, on doing homage to Henry, by the treaty of 

1175 Henry again at variance with his eldest son ; they are reconciled. 

Ireland is subjected to England by treaty ; the King of Ireland does homage. 

1183 Prince Bichard refuses to do homage to his brother Henry for the duchy of Aquitaine; 

war commences between them. . _. , , 

1183-4 King Henry and Prince Geoffry are at war with Prince Henry and Prince Bichard ; 

Prince Henry submits to his father. 

Prince Henry falls sich at Chateau Martel. 

Henry talS Limoges by assault; tahes several castles; captures Bertrand de Bom; 
pardons him. 

1186 Prince Geoffry is hilled at a tournament. w , 

1188 Jan. Peace between Henry and Philip; they meet and agree to march to the Holy 


Land. 


« 








346 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


k.D. 

1188 Nov. Prince Richard aoes homage to King Philip for his father’s continental territories. 
Philip and Richard take many of Henry’s towns. 

1189 July 6. King Henry dies at Chinon, and is buried at Fontevraud. 

Queen Eleanor is liberated and made regent. 

Richard I. returns to England, accompanied by Prince John. 

Sept. 3. Richard is crowned at Westminster by Baldwin, archbishop of Canterbury. 
Massacre of the Jews in London. 

Richard raises money for th6 crusade. 

1190 March 16. A great massacre of the Jews at York. 

Sept. 23. Richard arrives at Massina, and afterwards takes it. 

Richard arrives at Rhodes; he sails for Cyprus, reduces the island, and sends the 
emperor to a castle at Tripoli; he marries Berengaria at Limasol; embarks for 
Acre. 

June 8. Richard arrives at Acre; the siege of the castle proceeds. The kings of Eng¬ 
land and France quarrel. 

1191 June 12. Acre is surrendered. 

Philip quits Acre and returns to France. 

The Crusaders massacre the hostages given at the capitulation of Acre. 

Aug. 22. Richard marches towards Jerusalem. 

Sept. 7. Defeats Saladin near Azotus and takes possession of Jaffa. 

Oct. 9. Prince John is declared chief governor of England; Longchamp, the justiciary, 
is deposed; John obtains possession of the Tower. 

Nov. Richard marches from Jaffa; retreats to Ascalon. 

Quarrel between the Duke of Austria and Richard. 

He negotiates for peace with Saladin. 

1192 Saladin takes the town of Jaffa all but the citadel; Richard retakes it; battle of Jaffa. 
Truce is made for three years between the Crusaders and Saladin. 

Oct. Richard sails from Acre. 

Nov. Reaches Corfu; he is driven on shore on the coast of Istria ; he is discovered; 

is captured by the Duke of Austria and confined in the castle of Tiernstein. 

John goes to France and does homage to King Philip for his brother’s dominions on 
the continent. 

1193 The Duke of Austria sells King Richard to the Emperor Henry; he is confined in the 

Tyrol. 

Sept. 22. Terms are agreed upon for the liberation of Richard; 70,000 marks are 
raised for the ransom. 

1194 Feb. Richard is liberated. 

March 13. He lands at Sandwich, and marches to London. 

May. Richard lands at Barfleur. John submits and is forgiven. Philip is defeated in 
several engagements. 

1195 Hubert Walter is appointed grand justiciary. 

1196 William Fitz-Osborne heads a secret society; he is arrested; he stabs Geoffrv, a 

citizen ; is hanged in West Smithfield. 

1198 Richard defeats Philip near Gisors. 

1199 April 6. Death of King Richard; is buried at Fontevraud. 

May 25. John lands at Shoreham. 

May 27. He is crowned at Westminster. 

The French lung demands for Arthur of Brittany all John’s continental possessions ex¬ 
cept Normandy. 

Arthur is knighted by Philip. 

1200 Peace concluded, and Arthur disinherited. 

John marries Isabella, the wife of the Count de la Marclie- 
He is recrowned at Westminster with his queen. 

1201 Constance, mother of Arthur of Brittany, dies. 

J 202 Arthur invests tin town of Mirebeau; takes it; Queen Eleanor, widow ol Henry II., 
defends the citadel; John marches to her relief. 

July 31. John obtains possession of the town and takes Arthur, the Count de la Marcha. 
and others, prisoners. 

Arthur is confined at Falaise and afterwards in the castle of Rouen. 





CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS. 


347 


.A.D. 

1203 April 3. Death of Arthur. 

A general insurrection takes place in Brittany; many of John’s territories are takeu. 
Dec. John flies from Bouen to England. 

1204 Bouen, Yerneuil, and Chateau Gaillard surrender to Philip, and Normandy is re an¬ 

nexed to the French dominions. 

Brittany, Anjou, Maine, Touraine, and Poictou acknowledge Philip. 

1207 John disputes with the pope the right of appointing bishops ; John de Gray is appointed 

Archbishop of Canterbury ; the pope appoints Stephen Langton. 

1208 March 23. The kingdom is laid under an interdict. 

1209 John is excommunicated. 

1213 John is deposed by the pope. Philip collects a large fleet for the invasion of Eng ¬ 
land ; John sends out ships; they destroy the principal part of the French fleet. 
May 15. John swears fealty to the pope and surrenders his kingdom. 

The Barons refuse to embark in an expedition against France; John makes war on 


them. 

Aug. 25. Langton swears the barons at London to maintain the charter of Henry I. 
Sept. 29. John again swears fealty to the pope. 

1214 Nov. 20. The barons meet at St. Edmund’s Bury, and swear to assert their rights. 


1215 Jan. The barons demand the Great Charter. 

The barons meet at Stamford ; march to Oxford; they present the heads of their de¬ 
mands ; they elect Bobert FitzWalter their leader. 

May 24. They enter London ; John agrees to their terms. 

June 15. Meeting at Bunnymead ; John grants the Great Charter. 

John invites an army of foreign mercenaries, and takes Bocliester Castle, the baions 
are excommunicated by the pope. 

Dec. 16. The barons are again excommunicated and London laid under an interdict. 
The English crown is offered to Louis, son of Philip, king of France, by the confede¬ 
rate barons. 

1216 May 30. The French army lands at Sandwich; Louis takes Bocliester Castle. 

June 2. He enters London, and the barons do homage and swear fealty to him in St. 
Paul’s Cathedral. 

Louis unsuccessfully besieges Dover Castle. 

Oct. John marches through Peterborough; his baggage and army are nearly ah 
swallowed up by the wash at Fossdike; he repairs to Swineshead Abbey. 

Oct. 15. John is seized with fever; he appoints his son Henry his successor; the barons 
with him swear fealty to the prince. 

Oct. 18. King John dies; is buried in Worcester Cathedral. 

Accession of Henry III. 

Oct. 26. Henry is crowned at St. Peter’s Church, Gloucester. 

Nov. 11. Great council at Bristol; the Earl of Pembroke chosen Protector; Magna 
Charta is revised. 

Dec. 6. Louis takes Hertford Castle. 

1217. May 20. The battle called “The Fair of Lincoln” fought. 

Aug. 28. French fleet sails from Calais. 

Aug. 24. Hubert de Burgh takes or destroys the whole. 

Sept. 11. Louis agrees to abandon his claim on England. 

Sept. 14. He sails for France. 

Oct. 2. The barons who had adhered to Louis are received at court. 

Oct. 4. New charter granted to the city of London. 

The Charter of Forests is granted. . , . . _ . , 

PH9 May. The Earl of Pembroke, the regent, dies, and is buried m the Temple Church. 

Hubert de Burgh and the Bishop of Winchester are appointed regents. 


Pandulph is made legate. . v ,. 

1225 A parliament is summoned at Westminster; money is granted on condition ot the 

ratification of the two charters. 

J 236 Henry marries Eleanor, daughter of the Count of Provence. 

1238 Simon de Montfort, earl of Leicester, marries Eleanor, countess dowager of Pembroke, 

sister of King Henry. .. 

1248 The parliament remonstrate with Henry; and refuse supplies. 






348 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


A.D. 

1252 

1253 


1256 

1258 


1261 

1263 

1264. 

1265 


1267 

1270 

1271 


1272 


Henry quarrels with the Earl of Leicester. 

May 3. Henry solemnly swears in Westminster Hall to observe the charters, and 
obtains money. 

Prince Edward marries Eleanor, daughter of Alphonso, king of Castile. 

Richard earl of Cornwall is elected king of the Romans; is crowned at Aix-la-Chapelle. 

May 2. Parliament is assemble at Westminster; the barons appear armed. 

June 11. The parliament called the “ Mad Parliament” meet at Oxford; committee of 
government appointed, and three sessions appointed to be held yearly; the king takes 
oaths to observe these acts. 

Eeh. 2. Henry dismisses the committee of government; seizes the Tower and the 
Mint; Prince Edward joins the barons; the king publishes a dispensation from the 
pope absolving him from his oaths taken at Oxford. 

April. The Earl of Leicester returns to England. 

Oct. Henry defeats the barons, and Prince Edward joins him. 

The king and the barons refer their deferences to the arbitration of Louis IX. of 
France ; the civil war again rages. 

May 12. Battle of Lewes; the king, the King of the Romans, and Prince Edward, are 
taken prisoners ; the truce of Lewes is concluded. 

Parliament is called, in which for the first time representatives appear. 

Prince Edward escapes ; battle at Kenilworth. 

Aug. 4. The battle of Evesham; the Earl of Leicester is slain. 

Parliament at Winchester; London deprived of its charter; dictum of Kenilworth. 

Parliament at Marlborough; the dictum of Kenilworth accepted. 

July. Prince Edward sails for the Holy Land. 

Edward lands at Acre ; takes Nazareth; the Moslems are massacred; returns to Acre; 
is wounded by an assassin. 

Dec. Richard, king of the Romans, dies. 

Nov. 16. King Henry dies at Westminster, and is buried in the abbey. 













PENNY CYCLOPAEDIA.] 


ANNALS OF EDWARD I, 


349 


BOOK IV. 


S3.—ANNALS OF EDWARD I. 


From the “ Penny Cyclopaedia. 


Edward I kin<* of England, surnamed Long-shanks, from the excessive length 
rS eldest soA of king Henry III., by his wife Eleanor second 
daughter of Raymond, count of Provence. He was born at Westmmstei, June 1 , 

1 Edward early manifested a character very unlike that of his weak and imprudent 
father. "While yet only entering upon manhood, we find him taking part in im¬ 
portant affairs of state. The more important of the transactions m "hie i t o 

Prince was engaged, have already been narrated. . ., ... ,, 

After the war of the barons was ended, in 1267, at a parliament held at North¬ 
ampton prince Edwaid, together with several noblemen and a great number of 
kni-hts’ pledged themselves to proceed to join the crusaders in the Holy Land. 
ThePrince accordingly, having fust, in a visit to Paris, in August 1269, made his 
arrangements with St Louis, set sail from England to join that king m May, the 
year following. St. Louis died on his way to Palestine ; and Edward, hay mg spent 
the winter in Sicily waiting for him, did not arrive at the scene of action till the 
end of Mot 1271 Here he performed several valorous exploits which however 
were attended with no important result. His most memorable adventure was an 
encounter with a Saracen, who attempted to assassinate him, and whom he slew on 
the spot but not before he had received a wound in the arm from a poisoned 
l " v frnm the effects of which he is said to have been delivered by the princess, 

dagger, from the effects of whic^ wound At last> having concluded a ten 

he left Palestine in August, 1272, and set out on 
his return to England. He was at Messina, on his way home, in January, l~/o, 
when he heard of the death of his father on the 16th of November preceding. He 
proceeded on his journey, and landed with lus queen m. England 86ft• 
Thev were both solemnly crowned at Westminster on the 19tli of August 
W The re£n of Edward I, however, appears to have been reckoned not from 
thA dav of his coronation, according to the practice observed in the cases of a t u 







HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


350 


[penny cyclopaedia. 


the day of his father’s funeral, immediately after which the clerical and lay nobility 
who were present in Westminster Abbey on the occasion had sworn fealty to the 
new king at the high altar of that church. 

The first military operations of Edward’s reign were directed against the Welsh, 
whose prince Llewellyn, on being summoned to do homage, had contemptuously 
refused. Llewellyn was forced to sue for peace in November, 1277, after a single 
campaign ; but in 1281 he again rose in arms, and the insurrection was not put 
down till Llewellyn himself was slain at Llanfair, 11th December, 1282, and his 
surviving brother Prince David was taken prisoner soon after. The following year 
the last-mentioned prince was barbarously put to death by drawing, hanging, and 
quartering, and Wales was finally united to England. 

The conquest of Wales was followed by the attempt to conquer Scotland. By 
the death of Alexander III., in 1285, the crown of that country had fallen to his 
grand-daughter Margaret, called the Maiden of Norway, a child only three years 
old. By the treaty of Brigham, concluded in July, 1290, it was agreed that Mar¬ 
garet should be married to Edward, the eldest surviving son of the English king ; 
but the young queen died in one of the Orkney Islands on her voyage from Norway 
in September of the same year. Edward made the first open declaration of his 
designs against the independence of Scotland at a conference held at Norham on 
the Tweed with the clergy and nobility of that kingdom on the 10th of May, 1291. 
Ten differenL competitors for the crown had advanced their claims : but they were 
all induced to acknowledge Edward for their lord paramount and to consent to re¬ 
ceive judgment from him on the matter in dispute. His decision was finally 
pronounced in favour of John Balliol, at Berwick, on the 17th of November, 1292; 
on the next day Balliol swore fealty to him in the castle of Norham. He was 
crowned at Scone under a commission from his liege lord on the 30th of the same 
month ; and on the 26th of December he did homage to Edward for his crown at 
Newcastle. The subject king, however, was soon made to feel all the humiliation 
of his position ; and the discontent of his countrymen equalling his own, by the 
summer of 1294 all Scotland was in open insurrection against the authority of 
Edward. Meanwhile Edward had become involved in a war with the French kincr 
Philip IV. The first act of the assembled estates of Scotland was to enter into a 
treaty of alliance with that sovereign. But although he was farther embarrassed at 
this inconvenient moment by a revolt of the Welsh, Edward’s wonderful energy in 
a few months recovered for him all that he had lost. In the spring of 1296 he 
laid a great part of Scotland waste with fire and sword, compelled Balliol to resign 
the kingdom into his hands, and then made a triumphant progress through the 
country as far as Elgin in Murray, exacting oaths of fealty from all classes wherever 
he appeared. It was on his return from this progress that Edward, as he passed 
the cathedral of Scone in the beginning of August, carried away with him the famous 
stone, now in Westminster Abbey, on which the Scottish kings had been accus¬ 
tomed to be crowned. He now placed the government of Scotland in the hands 
of officers appointed by himself, and bearing the titles of his ministers. But by 
the month of May in the following year Scotland was again in flames. The leader 
of the insurrection now was the celebrated William Wallace. He and his country¬ 
men had been excited to make this new attempt to effect their deliverance from a 
foreign domination, partly by the severities of their English governors, partly by the 
circumstances in which Edward was at this time involved. The expenses of his 
Scottish and French wars had pressed heavily upon the resources of the kingdom ; 
and when he asked for more money, both clergy and laity refused him any farther 
grant without a redress of grievances and a confirmation of the several great nati( mil 





PENN! CYCLOPAEDIA. J 


ANNALS OP EDWARD I. 


35 i 


charters. After standing out for some time, he was obliged to comply with these 
terms: Magna Charta and the Charter of Forests were both confirmed, with some 
additional articles, in a parliament held at Westminster in October of this year. 

Meanwhile, although he had got disencumbered for the present of the war on 
the Continent, by the conclusion of a truce with king Philip, the rebellion in Scot¬ 
land had already gained such a height as to have almost wholly cleared that country 
of the English authorities. The forces of the government had been completely put 
to the rout by Wallace at the battle of Stirling, fought on the 11th September, and 
in a few weeks more not a Scottish fortress remained in Edward s hands. AY allace 
was now appointed Governor of Scotland, in the name of king John (Balliol). In 
this state of things Edward, about the middle of March 1298, returned to England 
from Flanders where he had spent the winter. He immediately prepared to maich 
for Scotland. The great battle of Falkirk followed on the 22nd of July, in which 
Wallace sustained a complete defeat. But although one consequence ot this event 
was the resignation by AYallace of his office of governor, it was not followed by the 
general submission of the country. The next five years were spent in a succession 
of indecisive attempts on the part of the English king to regain possession of 
Scotland ; the military operations being frequently suspended by long tiuces. At 
length, having satisfied his barons by repeated renewals of the charters, and having 
finally relieved himself from all interference on the part of the king of Fiance by a 
definitive treaty of peace concluded with him at Amiens on the 20th May, 13Co, 
Edward once more set out for Scotland at the head of a force too numerous and 
too well appointed to be resisted by any strength that exhausted country could now 
command. The result was again its temporary conquest, and merciless devastation 
from the Tweed to the Murray Frith. The Castle of Stirling was the last fortress 
that held out; it did not surrender till the 20th of July m the following year. 
Edward meanwhile had wintered in Dunfermline ; he only returned to Eng and m 
time to keep his Christmas in Lincoln. Wallace fell into his hands in a few months 
afterwards, and was hanged, drawn, and quartered as a traitor at Smithfieid in 
London on the 23rd August, 1305. But another champion of the Scottish inde¬ 
pendence was not long in appearing. Robert Bruce, Earl of Carnck, whose grand¬ 
father had been the chief competitor for the crown with Balliol, had resided for 
some vears at the English court ; but he now, in the beginning of February 1300 
suddenly made his escape to Scotland ; and in a few weeks the banner of revolt 
against the English domination was again unfurled m that countiy, and the insur¬ 
gent people gathered around this new leader. Bruce was solemnly crowned at 
Scone on the 27th March. On receiving this news Edward immediately prepared 
for a new expedition to Scotland ; and sent the Earl of Pembroke forward to en¬ 
counter Bruce, intending to follow himself as soon as he had completed he neees^ 
sary arrangements. The army of Bruce was dispersed at Perth on the 19th June 
by Pembroke, who had thrown himself into that town ; and the king of the Scots 
became for a time a houseless fugitive. But the great enemy of that unfortunate 
people had now reached the last stage of his destructive career Edwar go no 
farther than a few miles beyond Carlisle in his last journey to the north. After 
spending the winter months at Lanercost, where he was detained by a severe Muess 
he appears to have arrived in that city in the beginning of Maich 130/ , heie Lo 
was again taken ill but his eagerness to advance continued unabated : having so e- 

,as a »‘ l . , 5 • lf although he was still so weak and suffered so 

what recovered he again set out, altnougn ne was , 

much pain that he could accomplish no more than six miles in foul days. On tae 

0th of July he reached the village of Burgh-upon-Sands fiY'uA f'Ywot^d 
to copy the words of Lord Hailes, ‘ in sight of that country which he had devoid 
to destruction.' On his death-bed he is said to have enjoined lus son and success* 






352 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[PENNY CYCLOPEDIA, 

to prosecute the design which it was not given to himself to finish : according to 
Froissart, he made him swear that after the breath had departed from the royal 
body he would cause it to be boiled in a cauldron till the flesh fell off, and that he 
would preserve the bones to carry with him against the Scots as often as they should 
rebel. This oath, however, if it was taken, was not kept. The corpse of king 
Edward was interred in Westminster Abbey on the 28th of October. 


99.—THE CONQUEST OF WALES. 

Gold smith. 

The Welsh had for many ages enjoyed their own laws, language, customs, and 
opinions. They were the remains of the ancient Britons, who had escaped the 
Roman and Saxon invasion, and still preserved their freedom and their country un- 
contaminated by the admission of foreign conquerors. But as they were, from their 
number, incapable of withstanding their more powerful neighbours on the plain, 
their chief defence lay in their inaccessible mountains, those natural bulwarks of 
the country. Whenever England was distressed by factions at home, or its forces 
called off to wars abroad, the Welsh made it a constant practice to pour in their 
irregular troops, and lay the open country waste wherever they came. Nothing 
could be more pernicious to a country than several neighbouring independent prin¬ 
cipalities, under different commanders, and pursuing different interests ; the mutual 
jealousies of such were to harass the people ; and wherever victory was purchased, 
it was always at the expense of the general welfare. Sensible of this, Edward had 
long wished to reduce that incursive people, and had ordered Llewelyn to do homage 
for his territories ; which summons the Welsh prince refused to obey, unless the 
king’s own son should be delivered as a hostage for his safe return. The king was 
not displeased at this refusal, as it served to give him a pretext for his intended 
invasion. He therefore, (a.d. 1277), levied an army against Llewelyn, and marched 
into his country with certain assurance of success. Upon the approach of Edward, 
the Welsh prince took refuge among the inaccessible mountains of Snowdon, and 
there resolved to maintain his ground, without trusting to the chance of battle. 
These were the steep retreats that had for many ages before defended his ancestors ' 
against all the attempts of the Norman and Saxon conquerors. But Edward, 
equally vigorous and cautious, having explored every part of his way, pierced into 
the very centre of Llewelyn’s territories, and approached the Welsh army in its 
last retreat. Llewelyn at first little regarded the progress of an enemy that he 
supposed would make a transient invasion, and then depart; but this contempt 
was turned into consternation when he saw Edward place his forces at the foot of 
the mountains, and surround his army, in order to force it by famine. Destitute 
of magazines, and cooped up in a narrow corner of the country, without provisions 
for his troops, or pasturage for his cattle, nothing remained but death or submission ; 
so that the unfortunate Welsh prince, without being able to strike a blow for his 
independence, was at last obliged to submit at discretion, and to receive such terms 
as the victor was pleased to impose. Llewelyn consented to pay fifty thousand 
pounds, as a satisfaction for damages ; to do homage to the crown of England ; to 
permit all other barons, except four near Snowdon, to swear fealty in the same 
manner ; to relinquish the country between Cheshire and the river Conway ; to do 
justice to his own family ; and to deliver hostages for the security of his sub¬ 
mission. 

But this treaty was only of short durat’on : the oppression of the conqueror, 
and the indignant pride of the conquered nation, could not long remain without 








GOLDSMITH.] THE CONQUEST OF WALES. 353 

producing new dissensions. The fords of the marches committed all kinds of in¬ 
justice on their Welsh neighbours ; and although Edward remitted the fifty thou¬ 
sand pounds, he laid other restrictions some time after upon Llewelyn, which that 
prince considered as more injurious. He particularly exacted a promise from him 
at Worcester, that he would retain (a.d. 1281) no person in his principality that 
should be disagreeable to the English monarch. These were insults too great to 
be endured, and once more the Welsh flew to arms. A body of their forces took 
the field, under the command of David, the brother of the prince, ravaged the plain 
country, took the castle of Hawarden, made Sir Roger Clifford, justice of the Marches, 
who was very dangerously wounded, their prisoner, and soon after laid siege to the 
castle of Rhudlan. An account of these hostilities being quickly brought to Edward, 
he assembled a numerous army, and set out with a resolution to exterminate 
Llewelyn and his whole family, and to reduce that people to such an abject state, 
that they should never after be able to revolt, or distress their peaceable neigh¬ 
bours, At first, however, the king’s endeavours (a.d. 1282) were not attended 
with their usual success ; having caused a bridge of boats to be laid over the 
Menay frith, a body of forces, commanded by Lord Latimer and De Thorne, passed 
over before it was finished to signalize their courage against the enemy. The 
Welsh patiently remained in their fastnesses till they saw the tide flowing in be¬ 
yond the end of the bridge, and thus cutting off the retreat of the assailants. It 
was then that they poured down from the mountains with hideous outcries, and, 
with the most ungovernable fury, put the whole body, that had gotten over, to the 
sword. This defeat revived the sinking spirits of the Welsh, and it was now uni¬ 
versally believed by that superstitious people, that Heaven had declared in their 
favour! A story ran, that it was foretold in the prophecies of Merlin, that 
Llewelyn was to be the restorer of Brutus’s empire in Britain: a wizard had 
prognosticated that he should ride through the streets of London with a crown 
upon his head. These were inducements sufficiently strong to persuade this prince 
to hazard a decisive battle against the English. With this view he marched into 
Radnorshire ; and passing the river Wye, his troops were surprised and defeated 
by Edward Mortimer, while he himself was absent from his army upon a conference 
with some of the barons of that county. Upon his return, seeing the dreadful 
situation of his affairs, he ran desperately into the midst of the enemy, and quickly 
found that death he so ardently sought for. One of the English captains, recog¬ 
nizing his countenance, severed his head from his body, and it was sent to London, 
where it was received with extreme demonstrations of joy. The brutal spirit of 
the times will sufficiently appear from the barbarity of citizens on this occasion ; 
the head being encircled in a silver coronet, to fulfil the prediction of a wizard, it 
was placed by them upon a pillory, that the populace might glut their eyes with 
such an agreeable spectacle. David, the brother of this unfortunate prince, soon 
after shared the same fate ; while his followers, quite dispirited by the loss of their 
beloved leader, obeyed but slowly, and fought with reluctance. Being at last totally 
abandoned, he was obliged to hide himself in one of the obscure caverns of the 
country ; but his retreat being soon after discovered, he was taken, tried, and con¬ 
demned as a traitor. His sentence was executed with the most rigorous severity ; 
he was hanged, drawn and quartered, only for having bravely defended the expiring 
liberties of his native country, and his own hereditary possessions. With him ex- 
’ pired the government, and the distinction of his nation. It was soon after united 
to the kingdom of England, made a principality, and given to the eldest son of the 
crown. Foreign conquest might add to the glory, but this added to the felicity of 
the kingdom. The Welsh were now blended with the conquerors ; and in the re¬ 
volution of a few ages, all national animosity was entirely forgotten. 




354 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[GRAY. 


100.—THE BARD. 

Gray. 

[This Ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward the First, when he 
completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards that fell into his hands to be 
put to death.] 


“ Ruin seize thee, ruthless king ! 

Confusion on thy banners wait; 

Tho’ fann’d by conquest’s crimson wing, 

They mock the air with idle state. 

Helm, nor hauberk’s twisted mail, 

Nor e’en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail 

To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, 

From Cambria’s curse, from Cambria’s tears !” 

Such were the sounds that o’er the crested pride 
Of the first Edward’s scatter’d wild dismay, 

As down the steep of Snowdon’s shaggy side 

He wound with toilsome march his long array. 

Stout Glo’ster stood aghast in speechless trance ; 

“ To arms! ” cried Mortimer, and couch’d his quiv’ring lance. 

On a rock, whose haughty brow 
Frowns o’er cold Conway’s foaming flood, 

Robed in the sable garb of woe, 

With haggard eyes the poet stood ; 

(Loose his beard, and hoary hair 
Stream’d like a meteor to the troubled air) 

And with a master’s hand and prophet’s fire, 

Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. 

“Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave, 

Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice beneath ! 

O’er thee, oh king ! their hundred arms they wave, 

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; 

Vocal no more since Cambria’s fatal day, 

To high-born Hoel’s harp, or soft Llewellyn’s lay. 


“ Cold is Cadwallo’s tongue, 

That hush’d the stormy main ; 

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: 
Mountains, ye mourn in vain 
Modred, whose magic song 
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. 

On dreary Arvon’s shore they lie, 

Smear’d with gore, and ghastly pale : 

Far, far aloof th’ affrighted ravens sail; 

The famish’d eagle screams, and passes by 
Dear lost companions of m}' tuneful art, 

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my he^rt, 

Ye died amidst your dying country’s cries— 
No more I weep. The} r do not sleep. 

On yonder cliffs, a grissly band 


} 








= 


'3RAY.] 


THE BARD. 


355 


I see them sit, they linger yet, 

Avengers of their native land : 

With me in dreadful harmony they join. 

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of their line. 

“ Weave the warp, and weave the woof, 

The winding sheet of Edward’s race. 

Give ample room, and verge enough 
The characters of hell to trace. 

Mark the year, and mark the night, 

When Severn shall re-echo with affright 

The shrieks of death, thro’ Berkeley’s roof that ring, 

Shrieks of-an agonizing king ! 

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, 

That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled mate, 

From thee be born, who o’er thy country hangs 
The scourge of heav’n. "W hat terrors round him wait! 
Amazement in his van, with flight combin d, 

And sorrow’s faded form, and solitude behind. 

“ Mighty victor, mighty lord . 

Low on his funereal couch he lies ! 

No pitying heart, no eye, affords 
A tear to grace his obsequies. 

Is the sable warrior fled 1 
Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. 

The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were horn ? 
Gone to salute the rising morn. 

Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 

While, proudly riding o’er the azure realm, 

In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, 

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; 
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway. 

That, hush’d in grim repose, expects his ev’ning prey. 

I V 

“ Fill high the sparkling bo yd, 

The rich repast prepare, 

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast 

Close by the regal chair 
Fell Thirst and Famine scowl 

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. 

Heard ye the din of battle bray, 

Lance to lance, and horse to horse ? 

Long years of havock urge their destin’d course, 
And thro’ the kindred squadrons mow their way. 

Ye towers of Julius, London s lasting shame, 

With many a foul and midnight murder fed, 

Revere his consort’s faith, his father’s fame, 

And spare the meek usurper’s holy head. 

Above, below, the rose of snow, 

Twin’d with her blushing foe, we spread : 










356 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


The bristled boar in infant-gore 

Wallows beneath the thorny shade. 

Now, brothers, bending o’er the accursed loom, 
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 


* Edward, lo t to sudden fate. 

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun). 

Half of thy heart we consecrate. 

(The web is wove. The work is done). 

Stay, oh stay ! nor thus forlorn 

Leave me unbless’d, unpitied, here to mourn : 

In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, 

They melt, they vanish from my eyes. 

But oh ! what solemn scenes on Snowdon’s height, 
Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll? 
Yisions of glory, spare my aching sight! 

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! 

No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail, 

All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia’s issue, hail! 

“ Girt with many a baron bold, 

Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; 

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old 
In bearded majesty, appear. 

In the midst a form divine ! 

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line ; 

Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, 

Attemper’d sweet to virgin grace. 

What strings symphonious tremble in the air, 

What strains of vocal transport round her play ! 
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ; 

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay, 

Bright rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, 

Waves in the eye of heav’n her many-colour’d wings. 

“The verse adorn again # 

Fierce war and faithful love, 

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. 

In buskin’d measures move 
Pale grief, and pleasing pain, 

With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 

A voice as of the cherub-choir, 

Gales from blooming Eden bear ; 

And distant warblings lessen on my ear, 

That lost in long futurity expire. 

Fond impious man, think’st thou yon sanguine cloud, 
Rais'd by thy breath, has quench’d the orb of day ? 
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, 

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. 

Enough for me ; with joy I see 

The diff’rent dooms our fates assign. 





GRAY.] 


THE BARD. 


357 


Be thine despair, and scept’red care, 

To triumph, and to die, are mine.” 

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain’s height, 
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. 


101.—THE STORY OF WILLIAM WALLACE. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

William "Wallace was none of the high nobles of Scotland, but the son of a pri¬ 
vate gentleman, called Wallace of Ellerslie, in Renfrewshire, near Paisley. He was 
very tall and handsome, and one of the strongest and bravest men that ever lived. 
He had a very fine countenance, with a quantity of fair hair, and was particularly 
dexterous in the use of all weapons which were then employed in battle. Wallace, 
like all Scotsmen of high spirit, had looked with great indignation upon the usur¬ 
pation of the crown by Edward, and upon the insolences which the English soldiers 
committed on his countrymen. It is said, that when he was very young, he went 
a fishing for sport in the river of Irvine, near Ayr. He had caught a good many 
trouts, which were carried by a boy, who attended him with a fishing-basket, as is 
usual with anglers. Two or three English soldiers, who belonged to the garrison of 
Ayr, came up to Wallace, and insisted, with their usual insolence, on taking the fish 
from the boy. Wallace was contented to allow them a part of the trouts, but he 
refused to part with the whole basketful. The soldiers insisted, and from w T ords 
came to blows. Wallace had no better weapon than the butt-end of his fishing lod; 
but he struck the foremost of the Englishmen so hard under the ear^with it, that 
he killed him on the spot; and getting possession of the slain man’s sword, he 
fought with so much fury that he put the others to flight, and brought home his 
fish° safe and sound. The English governor of Ayr sought for him, to punish him 
with death for this action ; but Wallace lay concealed among the hills and great 
woods till the matter was forgotten, and then appeared in another part of the 
country. He is said to have had other adventures of the same kind, in which he 
gallantly defended himself, sometimes when alone, sometimes with very few com¬ 
panions, against superior numbers of the English, until at last his name became 
generally known as a terror to them. 

But the action w r hich occasioned his finally rising in arms, is believed to lia\e 
happened in the town of Lanark. Wallace was at this time married to a lady of 
that place, and residing there with his wife. It chanced, as he walked in the 
market-place, dressed in a green garment, with a rich dagger by his side that an 
Englishman came up and insulted him on account of his finery, saying, a Scotsman 
had no business to wear so gay a dress, or carry so handsome a weapon. It soon 
came to a quarrel, as on many former occasions ; and Wallace, having killed t e 
Englishman, fled to his own house, which was speedily assaulted by all the Eng is 1 
soldiers While they were endeavouring to force their way m at the front of the 
house, Wallace escaped by a back-door, and got in safety to a rugged and rocky 
glen, near Lanark, called the Cartland-crags, all covered with bushes and trees an 
full of high precipices, where he knew he should be safe from the pursuit of t e 
English soldiers. ' In the meantime, the governor of Lanark, whose name was 
Hazelrigg, burned Wallace’s house, and put his wife and servants to death ; and 
by committing this cruelty, increased to the highest pitch, as you may well believe, 
the hatred which the champion had always borne against the English usurper, 
Hazelrigg also proclaimed Wallace an outlaw, and offered a reward to any one who 
should bring him to an English garrison, alive or dead. 












358 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SIR WALTER SCOTT 

On the other hand, Wallace soon collected a body of men, outlawed like himself, 
or willing to become so, rather than any longer endure the oppression of the Eng¬ 
lish. One of his earliest expeditions was directed against Hazclrigg, whom he killed, 
and thus avenged the death of his wife. He fought skirmishes with the soldiers 
who were sent against him, and often defeated them ; and in time became so well 
known and so formidable, that multitudes began to resort to his standard, until at 
length he was at the head of a considerable army, with which he proposed to re¬ 
store his country to independence. 

About this time is said to have taken place a memorable event, which the Scottish 
people called the Barns of Ayr. It is alleged that the English governor of Ayr had 
invited the greater part of the Scottish nobility and gentry in the western parts, to 
meet him at some large buildings called the barns of Ayr, for the purpose of friendly 
conference upon the affairs of the nation. But the English earl entertained the 
treacherous purpose of putting the Scottish gentlemen to death. The English 
soldiers had halters with running nooses ready prepared, and hung upon the beams 
which supported the roof; and as the Scottish gentlemen were admitted by two 
and two at a time, the nooses were thrown over their heads, and they were pulled 
up by the neck, and thus hanged or strangled to death. Amongst those who were 
slain in this base and treacherous manner, was, it is said, Sir Reginald Crawford, 
sheriff of the county of Ayr, and uncle to William Wallace. 

When Wallace heard of what had befallen, he was dreadfully enraged, and collect¬ 
ing his men in a wood near the town of Ayr, he resolved to be revenged on the 
authors of this great crime. The English in the mean while made much feasting, 
and when they had eaten and drunk plentifully, they lay down to sleep in the samo 
large barns in which they had murdered the Scottish gentlemen. But Wallace, 
learning that they kept no guard or watch, not suspecting there were any enemies 
so near them, directed a woman, who knew the place, to mark with chalk the doors 
of the lodgings where the Englishmen lay. Then he sent a party of men, who, 
with strong ropes, made all the doors so fast on the outside, that those within 
could not open them. On the outside the Scots had prepared heaps of straw, to 
which they set fire, and the barns of Ayr, being themselves made of wood, were 
soon burning in a bright flame. Then the English were awakened, and endeavoured 
to get out to save their lives. But the doors, as I told you, were secured on the 
outside, and bound fast with ropes ; and, besides, the blazing houses were sur¬ 
rounded by the Scots, who forced those who got out to run back into the fire, or 
else put them to death on the spot; and thus great numbers perished miserably. 
Many of the English were lodged in a convent, but they had no better fortune than 
the others ; for the prior of the convent caused all the friars to arm themselves, 
and attacking the English guests, they put most of them to the sword. This was 
called the “Friar of Ayr’s Blessing.” We cannot tell if this story of the Barns of 
Ayr be exactly true ; but it is probable there is some foundation for it, as it is 
universally believed in that country. 

Thus Wallace’s party grew daily stronger and stronger, and many of the Scottish 
nobles joined with him. Among these were Sir William Douglas, the Lord of 
Douglas-dale, and the head of a great family often mentioned in Scottish history. 
There was also Sir John the Grahame, who became Wallace’s bosom friend and 
greatest confidant. Many of these great noblemen, however, deserted the cause of 
the country on the approach of John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, the English 
governor, at the head of a numerous and well-appointed army. They thought that 
Wallace would be unable to withstand the attack of so many disciplined soldiers, 
and hastened to submit themselves to the English, for fear of losing their estates. 
Wallace however, remained undismayed, and at the head of a considerable army. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT.] 


THE STORY OF WILLIAM WALLACE. 


359 


He had taken up his camp upon the northern side of the river Forth, near the town 
of Stirling. The river was there crossed by a long -wooden bridge, about a mile 

above the spot where the present bridge is situated.. . 

The English general approached the banks of the river on the southern side. e 
sent two clergymen to offer a pardon to Wallace and his followers, on condition that 
they should lay down their arms. But such was not the purpose of t ie ig 

minded champion of Scotland. , - 

“Go back to Warenne,” said Wallace, “ and tell him we value not the pardon of 

the kino- 0 f England. We are not here for the purpose of treating of peace, but of 
abiding battle, and restoring freedom to our country. Let the English come on ; 

we defy them to their very beards !” _ . o 

The English, upon hearing this haughty answer, called loudly to be led to the 

attack. Their leader, Sir Richard Lundm, a Scottish knight, who had gone over to 
the enemy at Irvine, hesitated, for he was a skilful soldier, and he saw that, to 
approach the Scottish army, his troops must pass over the long, narrow wooden 
bridge ; so that those who should get over first might be attacked by Wallace with 
all his forces, before those who remained behind could possibly come to their assis - 
anee He therefore inclined to delay the battle. But Cressingham the treasurer 
who was ignorant and presumptuous, insisted that it was their duty to fight, and 
put an end to the war at once ; and Lundin gave way to his opinion, although 
Cressingham, being a churchman, could not be so good a judge of what was fitting 

ns he himself, an experienced officer. ... ,. 

The English army began to cross the bridge, Cressingham leading the van, or 

foremost division J the° army ; for, in those military days, even clei 
armour and fought in battle. That took place which Sir Richard Lundin a 
foreseen. 8 Wallace suffered a considerable part of the English army to pass the 
, rv? • „ nriv onnosition * but when about one half were o\cr, and 

the bridge was crowded with those who were following, he charged those who had 
crossed with his whole strength, slew a very great number and drove the_iest . 
the river Forth, where the greater part were drowned. The remainder of the Eng¬ 
lish army who were left on the southern bank of the river, fled id gieat confusion, 
,sh army, w o woodeD bridge , that the Scots might not pursue them 

having first set ^ very beginning of the battle ; and the Scots detested 

Cressingham v^as killed in th from g his dcad bod y, and kept pieces of it, in 

him so much, that y J English treasurer. Some say they 

memory of the revenge they had taken upont ^ x ^ ^ ^ H could 

made sad<Ue-^hs of ^ ^ ^ dishonourable thing of the Scots to 

inSuTtthus the d“ d body of their enemy, and shows that they must have been then 

a ferocious and b^baroua_h e0 P le » fled out 0 f Scotland after this defeat; and 

the^Sco^t^kfo^^^ 3 on^ ®^des, atfocked^the^astles^n^^nch 

continued to shelter tne ’ , , exploits on these occasions ; some of 

Many wonderful stones are t ‘ 1 ... invpnted or very much exaggerated, 

which are no doubt true, win e otersi are « ^ Ugh ^ SCTeral go mbats, chased 
It seems certain,, howeverthat J 1 th towns and castles of which they 

them almost entirely out of Scotland, re a complete freedom of the 

had possessed themselves, and ieco\e Cumberland and Northumber- 

country He eveni^Scottish soS^n’mvenge for the mischief which the Eng- 
land waste, where the Scottib . ’ cr fi e lties. Wallace did not approve 

lish had done m their country, co h endeavoured to protect the 

of their killing the people who were not m arms and 1 « Remain with 

clergymen and others, who were not able to defend themse 













360 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SIR WALTER SCOTT, 

me,” lie said to the priests of Hexham, a large town in Northumberland, “ for I 
cannot protect you from my soldiers when you are out of my presence.” The 
troops who followed Wallace received no pay, because he had no money to give 
them ; and that was one great reason why he could not keep them under restraint, 
or prevent their doing much harm to the defenceless country people. He remained 
in England more than three weeks, and did a great deal of mischief to the country. 

Indeed, it appears, that, though Wallace disapproved of slaying priests, women, 
and children, he partook of the ferocity of the times so much, as to put to death 
without quarter all whom he found in arms. In the north of Scotland, the English 
had placed a garrison in the strong castle of Dunnottar, which, built on a large and 
precipitous rock, overhangs the raging sea. Though the place is almost inaccessible, 
Wallace and his followers found their way into the castle, while the garrison in 
great terror fled into the church or chapel, which was built on the very verge of 
the precipice. This did not save them, for Wallace caused the church to be set on 
lire. The terrified garrison, involved in the flames, ran some of them upon the 
points of the Scottish swords, while others threw themselves from the precipice into 
the sea, and swam along to the cliffs, where they hung like sea-fowl, screaming in 
vain for mercy and assistance. 

The followers of Wallace were frightened at this dreadful scene, and falling on 
their knees before the priests who chanced to be in the army, they asked forgiveness 
for having'committed so much slaughter, within the limits of a church dedicated 
to the service of God. But Wallace had so deep a sense of the injuries which the 
English had done to his country, that he only laughed at the contrition of his 
soldiers. “ I will absolve you all, myself,” he said. “ Are you Scottish soldiers, 
and do you repent for a trifle like this, which is not half what the invaders deserved 
at our hands ?” So deep-seated was Wallace’s feeling of national resentment, that 
it seems to have overcome, in such instances, the scruples of a temper which was 
naturally humane. 

Edward I. was in Flanders when all these events took place. You may suppose 
he was very angry when he heard that Scotland, which he thought completely sub¬ 
dued, had risen into a great insurrection against him, defeated his armies, killed 
his treasurer, chased his soldiers out of their country, and invaded England with a 
great force. He came back from Flanders in a mighty rage, and determined not to 
leave that rebellious country until it was finally conquered ; for which purpose he 
assembled a very fine army, and marched into Scotland. 

In the mean time the Scots prepared to defend themselves, and chose Wallace to 
be governor, or protector of the kingdom, because they had no king at the time. 
He was now titled Sir William Wallace, Protector, or Governor, of the Scottish 
nation. But although Wallace, as we have seen, was the best soldier and bravest 
man in Scotland, and therefore the most fit to be placed in command at this critical 
period, when the king of England was coming against them with such great forces, 
yet the nobles of Scotland envied him this important situation, because he was not 
a man born in high rank, or enjoying a large estate. So great was their jealousy 
of Sir William Wallace, that many of these great barons did not seem very willing 
to bring forward their forces, or fight against the English, because they would not 
have a man of inferior condition to be general. This was base and mean conduct, 
and it was attended with great disasters to Scotland. Yet, notwithstanding this 
unwillingness of the great nobility to support him, Wallace assembled a large army; 
for the middling, but especially the lower classes, were very much attached to him. 
He marched boldly against the king of England, and met him near the town of 
Falkirk. Most of the Scottish army were on foot, because, as I already told you, 
in those days only the nobility and great men of Scotland fought on horseback- 


SIR WALTER SCOTT.] 


THE STORY OF WILLIAM WALLACE. 


361 


The English king, on the contrary, had a very large body of the finest cavalry in 
the world, Normans and English, all clothed in complete armour. He had also the 
celebrated archers of England, each of whom was said to carry twelve Scotsmen s 
lives under his girdle ; because every archer had twelve arrows stuck in his belt, 

and was expected to kill a man with every arrow. „ , 

The Scots had some good archers from the forest of Ettnck, who fought under 
command of Sir John Stewart of Benkill ; but they were not nearly equal in number 
to the English. The greater part of the Scottish army were on foot, armed with 
loner spears ; they were placed thick and close together, and laid all their spears so 
close point over point, that it seemed as difficult to break through them, as through 
the wall of a strong castle. When the two armies were drawn up facing each other, 
Wallace said to his soldiers, “ I have brought you to the ring let me see how you 
can dance meaning, I have brought you to the decisive field of battle, let me see 

how bravely you can fight. . . . , 

The English made the attack. King Edward, though he saw the close ranks, and 

undaunted appearance, of the Scottish infantry, resolved nevertheless to try whether 
he could not ride them down with his fine cavalry. He therefore gave his horse¬ 
men orders to advance. They charged accordingly, at full gallop. It must have 
been a terrible thing to have seen these fine horses riding as hard as they could 
against the long lances, which were held out by the Scots to keep them back ; and 

a dreadful erv arose when they came against each other. 

The first line of cavalry was commanded by the Earl Marshal of England, whose 
progress was checked by a morass. The second line of English horse was com¬ 
manded by Antony Beck, the Bishop of Durham, who, nevertheless wore armour, 
and fought like a lay baron. He wheeled round the morass ; but when he saw the 
deep and firm order of the Scots, his heart failed and he proposed to Sir Ralph 
Basset of Drayton, who commanded under him, to halt till Edward himself brought 
on the reserve “ Go say your mass, bishop,” answered Basset contemptuously, 
advanced at full gallop with the second line. However, the Scots stood their 
gl^dThh th i "onfepears ; many of the foremost of the English horses were 

thrown down, and the riders were killed as they lay rolling, unaoie to rise, owing 
thiown ao , armour. But the Scottish horse did not come to the 

iListanTetftheh £ W Wt on the contrary, fled away from the battle It is 
v i-h a. ti-q s was owino - to the treachery or ill-will of the nobility, who were 

S Tus of Wallace But it must be considered that the Scottish cavalry were few 
jealous of n a . had much WO rse arms and weaker horses than their 

ln nemi“s The English cavalry attempted again and again to disperse the deep and 

solid ranks in which Wallace had stationed his foot soldiers But they were re- 
solid l ank. ma ke their through that wood of 

peatedly beaten off ^ith loss, nor co . ^ Kmg Edward theu com . 

speais, as 1 y these approaching within arrow-shot of the 

SSKS3 —5 •' r * 

Scottish ra , P , discharge. It happened at the same time, that Sir 

was impossible to sustain ° ' f ° h is horse ; Tnd the archers of Ettrick Forest, 

"f‘rt'wt toS^orLr“ 0 se those rf king Edward, were slain in great 
numbers around him. Their bodies were afterwards distinguished among the s am, 

aS Th^Scottish^spejumen^beingttms^brown^intysome degree of confusion, by the 
The tocottisn spea 0 f English, the heavy cavalry of 

loss of those who “y, aid broke trough the 

“ wWcTwere Leady disordered. Sir John Grahaine, Wallace’s great friend 







3(32 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [SIR WALTER SCOT® 

and companion, was slain, with many other brave soldiers ; and the Scots, having 
lost a very great number of men, were at length obliged to take to flight. 

This fatal battle was fought upon 22d July, 1298. Sir John the Grabame lies 
buried in the church-yard of Falkirk. A tombstone was laid over him, which has 
been three times renewed since his death. The inscription bears, “ That Sir John 
the Grahame, equally remarkable for wisdom and courage, and the faithful friend 
of Wallace, being slain in battle by the English, lies buried in this place.” A large 
oak tree in the adjoining forest, was long shown as marking the spot where Wallace 
slept before the battle, or, as others said, in which he hid himself after the defeat. 
Nearly forty years ago grandpapa saw some of its roots ; but the body of the tree 
was even then entirely decayed, and there is not now, and has not been for many 
years, the least vestige of it to be seen. 

After this fatal defeat of Falkirk, Sir William Wallace seems to have resigned 
his office of Governor of Scotland. Several nobles were named guardians in his 
place, and continued to make resistance to the English armies ; and they gained 
some advantages, particularly near Roslin, where a body of Scots, commanded by 
John Comyn of Badenoch, who was one of the guardians of the kingdom, and 
another distinguished commander, called Simon Fraser, defeated three armies, 
or detachments of English in one day. 

Nevertheless, the king of England possessed so much wealth, and so many means 
of raising Soldiers, that he sent army after army into the poor oppressed country 
of Scotland, and obliged all its nobles and great men, one after another, to submit 
themselves once more to his yoke. Sir William Wallace, alone, or with a very 
small band of followers, refused either to acknowledge the usurper Edward, or to 
lay down his arms. He continued to maintain himself among the woods and 
mountains of his native country for no less than seven years after his defeat at 
Falkirk, and for more than one year after all the other defenders of Scottish liberty 
had laid down their arms. Many proclamations were sent out against him by the 
English, and a great reward was set upon his head ; for Edward did not think he 
could have any secure possession of his usurped kingdom of Scotland while Wallace 
lived. At length he was taken prisoner ; and, shame it is to say, a Scotsman, 
called Sir John Menteith, was the person by whom he was seized and delivered to 
the English. It is generally said that he was made prisoner at Robroyston, near 
Glasgow ; and the tradition of the country bears, that the signal made for rushing 
upon him and taking him at unawares, was, when one of his pretended friends, who 
betrayed him, should turn a loaf, which was placed on the table, with its bottom 
or flat side uppermost. And in after-times it was reckoned ill-breeding to turn a 
loaf in that manner, if there was a person named Menteith in company ; since it 
was as much as to remind him, that his namesake had betrayed Sir William Wallace, 
the champion of Scotland. 

Whether Sir Jahn Menteith was actually the person by whom Wallace was be¬ 
trayed, is not perfectly certain. He was, however, the individual by whom the 
patriot was made prisoner, and delivered up to the English, for which his name and 
his memory have been long loaded with disgrace. 

Edward having thus obtained possession of the person whom he considered as 
the greatest obstacle to his complete conquest of Scotland, resolved to make Wallace 
an example to all Scottish patriots who should in future venture to oppose his 
ambitious projects. He caused this gallant defender of his country to be brought 
to trial in Westminster Hall, before the English judges, and produced him there, 
crowned, in mockery, with a green garland, because they said he had been king of 
outlaws and robbers among the Scottish woods. Wallace was accused of having 


SIR WALTER SCOTT.] 


THE STORT OF WILLIAM WALLACE. 


363 


been a traitor to the English crown ; to which he answered, I could ot 
traitor to Edward, for I was never his subject.” He was then charged with having 
taken and burnt towns and castles, with having killed many men, and done much 
violence. He replied, with the same calm resolution, “that it was true he had 
killed very many Englishmen, but it was because they had come to subdue and 
oppress Ids native country of Scotland ; and far from repenting what he had done, 
he declared he was only sorry that he had not put to death in 

Notwithstanding that Wallace’s defence was a good one, both m law and in 
common sense (for surely every one has not only a right to fight m defence o . 
“country, but is bound in duty to do so), the^English judges 
to he executed So this brave patriot was dragged upon a sledge to the place ot 
^ecution where his head was struck off, and his body divided into four quarters 
whTch acting to the cruel custom of the time were exposed upon spikes of rron 
on London Bridge, and were termed the limbs of a tiaitor. 


103. WALLACE AND BRUCE. ^ C „ NNINGHAM . 

[We have been favoured by Mr. Peter Cunningham with the following extract from an un- 
published Drama, from the pen of his father]. 


Carron Side. 


Wallace mourning by the body of Grmne. 


Wallace. O thou calm moon, pursuing thy bright bourse 
Through heaven’s deep azure, sown with burning stars, 

If thou wert aught but an immortal thing, 

To whom the loveliest of man’s fancyings 
Are but vain shadows, thou’dst rain fiery tears 
Upon this earth, and shoot down angry stais. 

Cold calm thou art fair moon, five thousand years 
Hast thou pursued thy unremitting course, 

Brighter nor darker, though the world beneath 
Knee-deep in blood, and heaped with slaughtered bones, 

Choked the pure air, so that the lark her song 
Took up to the morn stars. Still thou shinest on 
Fair and untroubled though wronged maidens shrieks, 

And orphans’ cries afflict the midnight am * 

Cold thou look’st down on these heroic limbs, ( 

Stretched stark and stiff, a sight to make man mad, 

And in his anger to forget the gods. 

Enter Bruce—other side of Carron. 

Bruce. Ha ! who goes there ? 

^_ aUace ' A Thou’st proved this day 

That thou art one.—A word if thou art W ^ llac ^ B 
Wallace. Sir, I am Wallace ;-that thou ait the Bruce, 

Thou hast this day writ in thy country s blood. 

See’st thou by the pale moon this face still paler! 








364 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 

It was a living man this morn, a hero 
In mind and courage, and a god in form. 

Heir of poor Scotland’s crown, dost thou not weep 
To see this doleful sight ? 

Bruce. Yes, I could weep 

To see thy gallant and heroic spirit, 

Tasked to a toil surpassing human strength.— 

Look on this land'—its people few and poor, 

Torn too by discord—its crown’d head a shadow— 

Contending with the mightiest realm on earth, 

With the most martial prince too.—If the love 
Of Scotland warms thee in this hopeless strife, 

Thy courage will but add weight to her chains. 

If thou court’st personal grandeur and ambition, 

Thou hast had proof to-day that our high nobles 
Scorn thy peculiar merits ; and regard 
Thy worth as their reproach. 

Wallace. Now I despair, 

Who ne’er despaired till now ! Yes, Scotland’s poor, 

Its people few, its crowned king a shadow, 

Its nobles mean and trait’rous, and its foes 
Many and martial, and their monarch warlike. 

I said all this and far more to my soul, 

Ere I did draw the sword. But when I heard 
The loud groan of its people : saw them chased 
From rock*to forest like the bleeding hart, 

No'nobles’ hands stretch’d out to lead and save. 

I set my soul, sir, on this desperate task, 

And 0 ! I thought, when I storm’d some strong tower, 

And slew some stronger tyrant, it would shame 
Into their ancient valour Bruce or Douglas. 

That no such change took place, is the blame mine ? 

No—by the heaven above me thine’s the fault. 

High birth, high fortune and high courage call 

Enter Menteth 'privily unseen. 

On Bruce to avenge his country’s wrongs, and place 
Our ancient crown on his heroic brow. 

Bruce. Hist ! sure that is the sound of an arm’d foot ? 

Wallace. Yea, or the Carron chafing with her rocks, 

For she too covets freedom. Sir, can heaven 
Find for men’s virtue here a holier task 
Than warring for one’s country, or a higher 
Than for the ancient crown of a free people ? 

For me I know that a most tragic end 
Will make my name a wonder.—Yet I’ll die 
As freely as the summer sun gives light 
If it will save my country. 

Menteth. Now I see, 

Lord Bruce, the poison sinks into thy soul. 

Bruce. I cannot reach my hand o’er this wild stream 
Nor clasp thee in the arms of strong affection, 


laside. 


WALLACE AND BRUCE. 


365 


ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.] 


But I press thee in fancy to my soul, 

Thou ill-requited, patriot. 

Wallace. Well requited now, 

Since my poor words and deeds have moved thy heart. ■ 
Throw the inglorious bonds of Edward off— 

Summon the lances of the Boon and Nith 
Place the bright crown of Scotland on thy brow,— 

Call on thy subjects, and an age of wrongs 
Bight in an hour in one of those great fields 
God gives the people. 

fi ruC e. By the cross ! I’ll do it! 

By all I love in heaven, or dread in hell, 

Or hope on earth, I’ll do it! 

Menteth. Scotland’s crown 

Will tempt thee to perdition, Bruce—I see 
These fair locks which the dames of Carrick love, 

The axe must sever, and, stern Wallace, thine, 

Since thou standest an armed spectre in the path, 

Must seek the summit of some royal tower 
And warp and wither in the sun and wind. 

Wallace. Do that, and Scotland will perform her part. 
Her heart is whole—her spirit stunn’d not crushed. 

O Grseme, could thy cold ear but heai these tidings . 

My heart leaps light in spite of all the blood 

Which has to-day been shed. 

Bruce. We must act warily, 

Our foe is wise and warlike—crafty too. 

Wallace. O Bruce, my king, I have a boon to beg,— 
When thou stand’st conqueror on some well fought field, 
And turn’st thy brow to heaven in prayer, thou’lt see 
My head stuck bleaching on some stronghold’s top, 

Oh take it down, and reverently inter it— 

I have no more to ask. 

Bruce. 0 ! I shall hear 

That battle shout again that shakes men’s hearts, 

And see that sword flash o’er opposing helmets— 

Thy right hand on my head shall set the crown. 

But we must meet, and when we meet 111 lay 
My plans before thee for this great redemption. 

Soon of this tryste I’ll send in token to thee 
By an assured friend. 


(aside). 


/ 


{Exeunt Wallace, } Bruce, and Menteth. 







366 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C„ KNIGHT. 


103.—THE DEATH OF PIERS GAVESTON. 

C. Knight. 

On the edge of the road that leads from Warwick to Coventry, is a knoll now 
almost covered with trees, which was the scene of one of the most remarkable 
events in our history. It was on this mount that Piers Gaveston, the favourite of 
a weak monarch, (Edward II.), was beheaded. The original name of this place was 
Blacklow-hill. It is now called either by that name, or by that of Gaveston-hill. 
We have visited this spot ;—and the murder which was there committed appears 
to us to present a very appropriate illustration of the fierce and troublesome times, 
when force was opposed to force, and the conflicts of power had not yet submitted 
to the sacred dominion of law and justice. 

The establishment of general freedom, and of legal obligations, in a rude and 
martial state of society, is generally the work not of a few years, but of whole 
generations. Though the terms of Magna Charta evidently imply that the great 
principles of civil liberty were very early developed in England, yet it is evident 
that the condition of the great body of the people was still slowly improved, and 
that the crown and the nobility were too often involved in disputes for power, 
Avhich would not admit of any very decided social amelioration. During the long 
reign of Henry III., the country was distracted by civil contests ;—and in the suc¬ 
ceeding sway of Edward I., the bold and martial character of the prince was com¬ 
municated to the age in which he lived ; and though many wholesome laws were 
established, the balance of authority and of interests in our constitution was still 
very imperfectly exhibited. The vices and frivolity of Edward II. again stirred up 
the contests between the monarch and the barons. The event which we are about 
to record shows to what daring extremities these contests would sometimes lead. 

Previous to the accession of Edward II. to the throne, in the year 1307, he had 
submitted himself, with the most blind and obstinate confidence, to the councils of 
his favourite, Piers Gaveston. This young man was a Gascon by birth. He is re¬ 
presented by historians to have been possessed of singular personal and mental 
acquirements to have been haudsome, active, enterprising, and courageous—and 
superior in spirit and talent to the rough and unpolished barons of the English 
court. But he was notoriously unprincipled and profligate, and his prido and 
ambition were altogether of the most extravagant character. During the life of his 
father, the young prince Edward had exhibited marks of a vicious and dissolute 
disposition. He had incurred the displeasure of the king by his irregularities ;— 
and his crimes being ascribed to the evil suggestions of Gaveston, the companion 
of his vices was banished the kingdom. The first act of the accession of Edward 
II., was to recall his favourite, and to load him with fortune and honours. He 
made a grant to him of the whole estate belonging to the earldom of Cornwall;— 
and also bestowed upon him a sum of money, which, in the currency of our own 
days, would appear to exceed the most extravagant donations of the most thought¬ 
less and luxurious princes of antiquity. Gaveston soon acquired an unbounded 
influence over the weak king. He removed all the high and responsible officers of 
the court from their stations, and filled their places with his dependents. He pro¬ 
cured himself to be appointed Great Chamberlain of the kingdom, and he became, 
indeed, the sole ruler of the English dominions. The monarch bestowed upon him 
his own niece in marriage ;—and consummated the greatness of his favourite by 
appointing him guardian of the realm during a voyage which he made to France. 
Had Gaveston possessed the greatest discretion, it is probable that these honours 
would have excited the utmost jealousy amongst the English nobles. But he was 



C. KNIGHT.] 


THE DEATH OF PIERS GAYESTON. 


367 


vain and presuming ; and his pride and insolence laid the foundation of an enmity, 
as extensive as it was bitter and unrelenting. 

The unbounded power and ostentation of Gaveston soon called forth the fierce 
and uncompromising spirit of the barons. They demanded of Edward the banish¬ 
ment of his favourite. The king tampered with their claims ; and it soon appeared 
probable that the sword would decide the controversy. The barons solemnly de¬ 
manded in Parliament that Gaveston should be expelled the kingdom ; the clergy 
denounced him excommunicated, should he continue in the island. The king at 
length appointed him Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, assigned the whole revenue of 
that kingdom for his subsistence, and attended him to the place of his embarkation. 

In a very short period Edward, being impatient for the return of his favourite, 
prevailed upon the pope to absolve Gaveston, according to the wretched supersti¬ 
tion of those days, from the oath he had taken to leave the kingdom for ever. 
The sentence of excommunication was also suspended. At the Parliament which 
followed, the king induced the nobility to consent to Gaveston’s recall. But the 
favourite had not learned prudence. He continued to display the same unbounded 
arrogance which had provoked the original resentment of the nobility ; and he 
indulged without reserve a talent for ridicule, of all qualities the most dangeious to 
the possessor. The barons came armed to Parliament ; and having a popular 
subject of complaint against the king, they succeeded in compelling him to autho¬ 
rise a commission for regulating the affairs of the kingdom. Hie monarch pro¬ 
ceeded to the Scottish war against Robert Bruce, accompanied by Pra'veston, hut his 
enterprises were not eventually successful. Edward returned to England. The 
commission which he had authorised had formed many salutary, though perhaps 
extreme and unconstitutional regulations, for the restriction of the royal preroga¬ 
tive. One of the articles particularly insisted upon was the banishment of Gaveston. 
The king was compelled to yield, and his favourite left the realm, and for some 
time resided at Bruges, with all the splendour of a sovereign prince. The next 
year, 1312, he ventured to return to York. The barons almost immediately took 
arms, under pretence of holding tournaments. They suddenly united their forces, 
and proceeded to attack the king at Newcastle. The unhappy monarch fled with 
precipitation ;—and Gaveston secured himself in the fortress of Scarborough, then 
one of the strongest holds in the kingdom. A detachment of the baronial army 
immediately invested that post. Gaveston stood several assaults with great bravery; 

_but dreading to exasperate his enemies, he at length capitulated to the eail of 

Pembroke, on condition of being kept in safe custody, while the barons should de¬ 
liberate on the diposal of his person, and if he should not agree to their terms, 
that he should be placed in the same posture of defence which he resigned. The 
barons in authority pledged themselves to the treaty, on pain of forfeiting all their 
possessions. The earl of Pembroke proposed to convey his prisoner to his own 
castle at Wallingford, but left him during one night at Deddmgton Castle near 
Banbury. Guy, earl of Warwick, the implacable enemy of Gaveston, immediately 
seized upon his person. He bore him in triumph to Warwick Castle where the 
earls of Lancaster, Hereford, and Arundel, repaired to hold a consultation about 
their prisoner. His fate was speedily decided. He was dragged to Black low-hi 
about two miles from Warwick Castle, where he was beheaded amidst the scorn and 

reproach of his implacable and perfidious enemies. ~ 

On the top of Blacklow-hill there is a rude stone, on which the name of Gaveston 
and the date of his execution, are cut in ancient characters. As we have here sat, 
looking with delight upon the beautiful prospect which this summit presents, we 
could not avoid contrasting the peacefulness and the fertility that were spread aroun 
with the wild appearance that the same spot must have presented, at tne penod of 






HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


368 


(C. KNTGHi. 


lawless violence wliicli we have described. Beneath our feet the Avon was gliding 
in tranquillity and loveliness, pursuing its silent course through plenteous fields or 
by elegant villas—now ornamenting the mansion of the noble, and now bestowing 
its beauty upon the cottage of the peasant. W hen Gaveston fell, it glided amongst 
sterile cliffs, or through barren plains,—for equal laws had not then bestowed upon 
industry the blessing of security ;—the labourer worked for a severe task-master, 
and the possessions of the yeomen were under the control of a tyrannical lord. In 
the distant prospect we saw the lofty towers of Warwick Castle rising above the 
woods in ancient magnificence. When Gaveston perished, they were the scenes of 
many a midnight murder, and many an ignominious torture. Here had been the 
rude pomp, the fearful counsels, and the tumultuous passions, of the feudal days. 
The pride, and the devices, and the ambition of those times were now only ‘Ho 
point a moral, or adorn a tale.” The towers of antique splendour indeed remained; 
—but they were associated with the beauties of modern adornment; and the hand 
of taste had arrested the slow ravages of time, to preserve those memorials of past 
generations, whose records should teach us how much we have gained in intelligence 
and in happiness. 


104.—THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

King Edward II. was not a wise and brave man like his father, but a foolish 
prince, who was influenced by unworthy favourites, and thought more of pleasure 
than of governing his kingdom. His father Edward I. would have entered Scotland 
at the head of a large army, before he had left Bruce time to conquer back so much 
of the country. But we have seen, that, very fortunately for the Scots, that wise 
and skilful, though ambitious king, died when he was on the point of marching into 
Scotland. His son Edward had afterwards neglected the Scottish war, and thus 
lost the opportunity of defeating Bruce when his force was small. But now, when. 
Sir Philip Mowbray, the governor of Stirling, came to London, to tell the king, that 
Stirling, the last Scottish town of importance which remained in possession of the 
English, was to be surrendered if it were not relieved by force of arms before 
Midsummer, then all the English nobles called out, it would be a sin and a shame 
to permit the fair conquest which Edward I. had made, to be forfeited to the Scots 
for want of fighting. It was, therefore, resolved, that the king should go himself to 
Scotland, with as great forces as he could possibly muster. 

King Edward the Second, therefore, assembled one of the greatest armies which 
a king of England ever commanded. There were troops brought from all his domi¬ 
nions. Many brave soldiers from the French provinces which the king of England 
possessed in France,—many Irish, many Welsh,—and all the great English nobles 
and barons, with their followers, were assembled in one great army. The number 
was not less than one hundred thousand men. 

King Robert the Bruce summoned all his nobles and barons to join him, when 
he heard of the great preparation which the king of England was making. They 
were not so numerous as the English by many thousand men. In fact, his whole 
army did not very much exceed thirty thousand, and they were much worse armed 
than the wealthy Englishmen ; but then, Robert, who was at their head, was one 
of the most expert generals of the time ; and the officers he had under him, were 
his brother Edward, his nephew Randolph, his faithful follower the Douglas, ami 
other brave and experienced leaders, who commanded the same men that had been 




THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN- 


369 


SIR WALTER SCOTT.] 


accustomed to fight and gaiD victories under every disadvantage of situation and 
numbers. 

The king, on his part, studied how he might supply, by address and stratagem, 
what he wanted in numbers and strength. He knew the superiority of the English, 
both in their heavy-armed cavalry, which were much better mounted and armed 
than that of the Scots, and in their archers, which were better trained than any 
others in the world. Both these disadvantages he resolved to provide against. 
With this purpose he led his army down into a plain near Stirling, called the Paik, 
near which, and beneath it, the English army must needs pass thiough a bogg) 1 
country, broken with water-courses, while the Scots occupied hard dry ground. He 
then caused all the ground upon the front of his line of battle, where cavalry were 
likely to act, to be dug full of holes, about as deep as a man’s knee. They were 
filled with light brush-wood, and the turf was laid on the top, so that it appeared 
a plain field,'"while in reality it was all full of the=e pits as a honeycomb is of holes. 
He also, it is said, caused steel spikes, called calthrops, to be scattered up and down 
in the plain, where the English cavalry were most likely to advance, trusting in that 

manner to lame and destroy their horses. 

When the Scottish army was drawn up, the line stretched north and south. On 
the south, it was terminated by the banks of the brook called Bannockburn, which 
are so rocky, that no troops could attack them there. On the left, the Scottish line 
extended near to the town of Stirling. Bruce reviewed his troops very carefully ; 
all the useless servants, drivers of carts, and such like, of whom there were very 
many, he ordered to go behind a height, afterwards, in memory of the event, called 
the Gillies’ hill, that is, the Servants’ hill. He then spoke to the soldiers, and 
expressed his determination to gain the victory, or lose his life on the field of battle. 
He desired that all those who did not propose to fight to the last, should leave the 
field before the battle began, and that none should remain except those who wen 
determined to take the issue of victory or death, as God should send it. 

When the main body of his army was thus placed in order, the king posted Ran¬ 
dolph with a body of horse, near to the church of St. Ninian’s, commanding him to 
use the utmost diligence to prevent any succours from being thrown into Stirling 
Castle. He then dispatched James of Douglas, and Sir Robert Keith, the Maieschal 
of the Scottish army, in order that they might survey, as nearly as they could, the 
English force, which was now approaching from Falkirk. They returned with in¬ 
formation that the approach of that vast host was one of the most beautiful and 
terrible sights which could be seen,—that the whole country seemed covered with 
men-at-arms on horse and foot,—that the number of standards, banners, and 
pennons (all flags of different kinds,) made so gallant a show, that the bravest and 
most numerous host in Christendom, might be alarmed to see king Edward moving 


against them ... 

= It was upon the 23d of June (1314), the king of Scotland heard the news, that 

the English army wore approaching Stirling, lie drew out his army, therefore, m 
the order which he had before resolved on. After a short time, Bruce, who was 
looking out anxiously for the enemy, saw a body of English cavalry trying to get 
into Stirling from the eastward. This was the Lord Clifford, who with a chosen 
body of eight hundred horse, had been detached to relieve the castle. 

« See, Randolph,” said the king to his nephew, “ there is a rose fahen from your 
chaplet ” By this he meant, that Randolph had lost some honour, by su ering 
the enemy to pass where he had been stationed to hinder them Randolph made 
no reply but rushed against Clifford with little more than half his number. The 
Scots were on foot. The English turned to charge them with their lances and 
Randolph drew up his men in close order to receive the onset. He seemed to ho 







370 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [SIR WALTER SCOTT 

m so much danger, that Douglas asked leave of the king to go and assist him. The 
king refused permission. 

“ Let Randolph,” he said, “ redeem his own fault; I cannot break the order of 
battle for his sake.” Still the danger appeared greater, and the English horse 
seemed entirely to encompass the small handful of Scottish infantry. “ So please 
you,” said Douglas to the king, “ my heart will not suffer me to stand idle and see 
Randolph perish. I must go to his assistance.” He rode off accordingly ; but 
long before they had reached the place of combat, they saw the English horses 
galloping off, many with empty saddles. 

“Halt !” said Douglas to his men, “Randolph has gained the day; since we 
were not soon enough to help him in the battle, do not let us lessen his glory by 
approaching the field.” Now, that was nobly done ; especially as Randolph and 
Douglas were always contending which should rise highest in the good opinion of 
the king and the nation. 

The van of the English army now came in sight, and a number of their bravest 
knights drew near to see what the Scots were doing. They saw king Robert dressed 
in his armour, and distinguished by a gold crown, which he wore over his helmet. 
He was not mounted on his great war-horse, because he did not expect to fight 
that evening. But he rode on a little pony up and down the ranks of his army, 
putting his men in order, and carried in his hand a sort of battle-axe made of steel. 
When the king saw the English horsemen draw near, he advanced a little before 
his own men, that he might look at them more nearly. 

There was a knight among the English, called Sir Henry de Bohun, who thought , 
this would be a good opportunity to gain great fame to himself, and put an end to j 
the war, by killing King Robert. The king being poorly mounted, and having no 
lance, Bohun galloped on him suddenly and furiously, thinking, with his long spear, 
and his tall powerful horse, easily to bear him down to the ground. King Robert 
saw him, and permitted him to come very near, then suddenly turned his pony a 
little to one side, so that Sir Henry missed him with the lance-point, and was in 
the act of being carried past him by the career of his horse. But as he passed, 
King Robert rose up in his stirrups, and struck Sir Henry on the head with his battle- 
axe so terrible a blow, that it broke to pieces his iron helmet as if it had been a 
nut-shell, and hurled him from his saddle. He was dead before he reached the 
ground. This gallant action was blamed by the Scottish leaders, who thought Bruce 
ought not to have exposed himself to so much danger when the safety of the whole 
army depended on him. The king only kept looking at his weapon, which was 
injured by the force of the blow, and said, “ I have broken my good battle-axe.” 

The next morning, being the 24th June, at break of day, the battle began in 
terrible earnest. The English as they advanced saw the Scots getting into line. 
The Abbot of Inchaffray walked through their ranks barefooted, and exhorted them 
to fight for their freedom. They kneeled down as he passed, and prayed to Heaven 

for victory. King Edward, who saw this, called out, “ They kneel down_they are 

asking forgiveness.”—“ Yes,” said a celebrated English baron, called Ingelram de 
Umphraville, “ but they ask it from God, not from us—these men will conquer or 
die upon the field.” 

The English king ordered his men to begin the battle. The archers then bent 
their bows, and begun to shoot so closely together, that the arrows fell like flakes 
of snow on a Christmas-day. They killed many of the Scots, and might, as at 
Falkirk, and other places, have decided the victory ; but Bruce, as I told you before 
was prepared for them. He had in readiness a body of men-at-arms, well mounted* 
who rode at full gallop among the archers, and as they had no weapons save their 
bows and arrows, which they could not use when they were attacked hand to hand. 









SIR WALTER SCOTT.] THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN. 371 

they were cut down in great numbers by the Scottish horsemen, and thrown into 
total confusion. 

The fine English cavalry then advanced to support their archers, and to attack 
the Scottish line. But coming over the ground which was dug full of pits, the 
horses fell into these holes, and the riders lay tumbling about, without any means 
of defence, and unable to rise, from the weight of their armour. Ihe Englishmen 
began to fall into general disorder ; and the Scottish king, bringing up more of his 
forces, attacked and pressed them still more closely. 

On a sudden, while the battle was obstinately maintained on both sides, an event 
happened which decided the victory. The servants and attendants on the Scottish 
camp had, as I told you, been sent behind the army to a place afterwards called the 
Gillies’ hill. But when they saw that their masters were likely to gain the day, 
they rushed from their place of concealment with such weapons as they could get, 
that they might have their share in the victory and in the spoil. The English, 
seeing them come suddenly over the hill, mistook this disorderly rabble foi a new 
army coming up to maintain the Scots, and, losing all heart, began to shift c’veiy 
man for himself. Edward himself left the field as last as he could lide. A valiant 
knight, Sir Giles de Argentine, much renowned in the wars of Palestine, attended 
the king till he got him out of the press of the combat. But he would retreat no 
farther, u It is not my custom,” he said, “ to fly.” With that, he took leave of the 
king, set spurs to his horse, and calling out his war-cry of Argentine ! Aigentine ! 
he rushed into the thickest of the Scottish ranks, and was killed. 

The young Earl of Gloucester was also slain, fighting valiantly. The Scots would 
have saved him, but as he had not put on his armorial bearings, they did not know 
him, and he was cut to pieces. 

Edward first fled to Stirling Castle, and entreated admittance ; but Sii Philip 
Mowbray, the governor, reminded the fugitive sovereign that he was obliged to 
surrender the castle next day, so Edward w r as fain to fly through the Toiwood, 
closely pursued by Douglas with a body of cavalry. An odd circumstance happened 
during the chase, which showed how loosely some of the Scottish baions of that 
day held their political opinions : As Douglas was riding furiously after Edward, he 
met a Scottish knight, Sir Lawrence Abernethy, with twenty horse. Sir Lawrence 
had hitherto owned the English interest, and was bringing this band of followers to 
serve King Edward’s army. But learning from Douglas that the English king was 
entirely defeated, he changed sides on the spot, and was easily prevailed upon to join 
Douglas in pursuing the unfortunate Edward, with the very followeis whom he had 

been leading to join his standard. _ 

Douglas and Abernethy continued the chase, not giving king Edward time to 
alight from horseback even for an instant, and followed him as far as Dunbar, 
where the English had still a friend, in the governor, Patrick earl of March I he 
earl received Edward in his forlorn condition, and furnished him with a fishing- 
skiff, or small ship, in which he escaped to England, having entirely lost his fine 

army, and a great number of his bravest nobles. 

The English never before or afterwards, whether in France or Scotland, lost, so 
dreadful a battle as that of Bannockburn, nor did the Scots ever gain one oi the 
same importance. Many of the best and bravest of the English nobility anc gcnti), as 
I have said, lay dead on the field ; a great many more were made prisoners ; and 
the whole of king Edward’s immense army was dispersed or destroyed. 

The English, after this great defeat, were no longer in a condition to support their 
pretensions to be masters of Scotland, or to continue, as they had done for nearly 
twenty years, to send armies into that country to overcome it. On the contrary, 





HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


372 


[SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


they became for a time scarce able to defend their own frontiers against king Robert 
and his soldiers. 

There were several battles fought within England itself, in which the English had 
greatly the worst. One of these took place near Mitten, in Yorkshire. So many 
priests took part in the fight, that the Scots called it the Chapter of Mitten,- -a 
meeting of the clergymen belonging to a cathedral being called a Chapter. There 
was a great slaughter in and after the action. The Scots laid waste the country of 
England as far as the gates of York, and enjoyed a considerable superiority over 
their ancient enemies, who had so lately threatened to make them subjects of 
England. 

Thus did Robert Bruce arise from the condition of an exile, hunted with blood¬ 
hounds like a stag or beast of prey, to the rank of an independent sovereign, uni¬ 
versally acknowledged to be one of the wisest and bravest kings who then lived. 
The nation of Scotland was also raised once more from the situation of a distressed 
and conquered province, to that of a free and independent state, governed by its 
own laws, and subject to its own princes ; and although the country was, after the 
Bruce’s death, often subjected to great loss and distress, both by the hostility of 
the English, and by the unhappy civil wars among the Scots themselves, yet they 
never afterwards lost the freedom for which Wallace had laid down his life, and 
which king Robert had recovered, not less by his wisdom than by his weapons. And 
therefore most just it is, that while the country of Scotland retains any recollection 
of its history, the memory of those brave warriors and faithful patriots should be 
remembered with honour and gratitude. 


105.—THE FALL OF EDWARD II. 

Goldsmith. 

The king, finding himself steadily counteracted by all his subjects, had no re¬ 
source but in another favourite, in whom he reposed all confidence, and from whose 
connections he hoped for assistance. The name of this new favourite was Hugh 
le Despenser, a young man of a noble English family, of some merit, and very en¬ 
gaging accomplishments. His father was a person of a much more estimable 
character than the son ; he was venerable from his years, and respected through 
life for his wisdom, his valour, and his integrity. But these excellent qualities were 
all diminished and vilified, from the moment he and his son began to share the 
king’s favour. The turbulent barons, and Lancaster at their head, regarded them 
as rivals, and taught the people to despise those accomplishments that only served 
to eclipse their own. The king, equally weak and unjust in his attachments, in¬ 
stead of profiting by the wisdom of his favourites, endeavoured to strengthen him¬ 
self by their power. For this purpose he married the young Spenser to his niece ; 
settled upon him some very large possessions in the marches of Wales ; and even 
dispossessed some lords unjustly of their estates, in order to accumulate them upon 
his favourite. This was a pretext for which the king’s enemies had been long seek¬ 
ing : the earls of Lancaster and Hereford flew to arms ; and the lords Audley and 
Ancori, who had been dispossessed, joined them with all their forces. Their first 
measure was to require the king to dismiss or confine his favourite, the youn<* 
Spenser ; menacing him, in case of a refusal, with a determination to obtain their 
wishes by force. This request w T as scarcely urged, when they began to shew their 
resolution to have redress, by pillaging and destroying the lands of young Spenser, 
and burning his houses. The estates of the father soon after shared the same fate; 





GOLDSMITH.] 


THE FALL OF EDWARD II. 


373 


and the insurgents, having thus satiated themselves with the plunder of this most 
opulent family, marched to London, to inflict with their own hands that punish¬ 
ment which had been denied to their remonstrances. Finding a free entrance into 
the city, they so intimidated the parliament, that a sentence was procured of per¬ 
petual exile against the two Spensers, and a forfeiture of their fortune and estates. 
But an act of this kind, extorted by violence, was not likely to bind the king any 
longer than necessity compelled him. Some time after, having assembled a small 
army to punish one of those barons, who had offered an indignity to the queen, he 
thought it a convenient opportunity to take revenge on all his enemies at once, and 
to recall the two Spensers, whose company he so ardently desired. In this manner 
the civil war was rekindled, and the country once more involved in all the horrors 
of slaughter and devastation. 

The king had now gotten the start of his adversaries, and hastened by forced 
marches towards the borders of Wales, where the enemy’s chief power lay. Lan¬ 
caster, however, was not slow in making head against him ; having summoned all 
his vassals and retainers, and being joined by the earl of Hereford. Still farther to 
strengthen his party, he formed an alliance with the king of Scotland, with whom 
he had long been privately connected. But his diligence on this occasion proved 
ineffectual: the king, at the head of thirty thousand men, pressed him so closely, 
that he had not time to collect his forces ; and, flying from one place to another, 
he was at last stopped in his way towards Scotland, by Sir Andrew Harela, who 
repulsed his forces in a skirmish, in which the earl of Hereford was slain, and 
Lancaster himself taken prisoner. As he had formerly shewn little mercy to 
Gaveston, there was very little extended to him upon this occasion. He was com 
demned by the court martial; led, mounted on a lean horse, to an eminence neai 
Pontefract, in circumstances of the greatest indignity ; and beheaded by a Londoner. 
The people, with whom he had once been a favourite, seemed to have quite for¬ 
saken him in his disgrace ; they reviled him, as he was led to execution, with every 
q£ reproach 5 and even his own vassals seemed eager to lcmoic suspicion, by 
their being foremost to insult his distress. About eighteen moie of the piincipal 
insurgents were afterwards condemned and executed in a more legal manner while 
others found safety by escaping to the continent. 

A rebellion thus crushed, served only to increase the pride and rapacity of 
youn^ Spenser : most of the forfeitures were seized for his use ; and, in his promp¬ 
titude to punish the delinquents, he was guilty of many acts of rapine and injustice. 
He himself laid the train for his own future misfortunes, and an occasion soon 
offered for putting it into effect against him. The king of France, taking the ad¬ 
vantage of Edward’s weakness, resolved to confiscate all his foreign dominions. 
After^ a fruitless embassy from Edward, to dissuade that monarch from his purpose, 
the queen of England herself-desired permission to go over to the court of France, 
to endeavour to avert'the storm. The French king, though he gave her the kindest 
reception, was resolved to listen to no accommodation, unless Edward in peison 
should appear, and do him homage for the dominions he held under him. This 
was reckoned a very dangerous step, and what the king of England could not think 
of complying with, nor what his favourite Spenser was willing to permit. In this 
exigence the queen started a new expedient, which seemed calcinated to remove 
all difficulties. It was, that Edward should resign the dominion of Guienne to his 
son, now thirteen years of age ; and that the young prince should go to Pans, to 
pay that homage which had been required of his father. With this proposal all 
.arties agreed ; young Edward was sent to Paris ; and the queen, a haughty and 
ambitious woman, having thus gotten her son in her power, resolved to detain him 
till her own aims were complied with. Of these objects, one was the expulsion of 










3/4 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [GOLDSMITH. 

the Spensers ; against whom she had conceived a violent hatred, from their great 
influence over the king. 

In consequence of this resolution she protracted the negociation for some time ; 
and being at last desired by the king to return, she replied, that she would never 
again appear in England till Spenser should be removed from the royal presence, 
and banished from the kingdom. By this reply, she gained two very considerable 
advantages; she became popular in England, where Spenser was universally disliked; 
and she had the pleasure of enjoying the company of a young nobleman, whose 
name was Mortimer, upon whom she had lately placed her affections. This youth 
had, in some former insurrection, been condemned for high treason, but had the 
sentence commuted into perpetual imprisonment in the Tower. Thence, however, 
he had the good fortune to escape into France, and soon became distinguished 
among his party for his violent animosity to Spenser. The graces of his person 
and address, but particularly his dislike to the favourite, rendered him very accep¬ 
table to the queen ; so that, from being a partisan, he became a lover, and was 
indulged with all the familiarities that her criminal passion could confer. The 
queen’s court now, therefore became a sanctuary for all the malcontents who were 
banished from their own country, or who chose to come over A correspondence 
was secretly carried on with the discontented at home ; aLd nothing was now 
aimed at but to destroy the favourites, and dethrone the king. 

To second the queen’s efforts, many of the principal nobles prepared their 
vassals, and loudly declared against the favourite. The king’s brother, the Earl of 
Kent, was led to engage among the rest; the Earl of Norfolk was prevailed upon 
to enter secretly into the conspiracy ; the Earl of Leicester, heir to the Earl of 
Lancaster, was from principle attached to the cause : the Archbishop of Canterbury 
expressed his approbation of the queen’s measures ; and the minds of the people 
were inflamed by all those arts which the designing practice upon the weak and 
ignorant. While the English were thus disposed to rebel, the queen prepared for 
her expedition ; and, accompanied by three thousand men-at-arms, passed over from 
Dordrecht to the British coast, and landed without opposition in Suffolk. She no 
sooner appeared than there seemed a general revolt in her favour; three prelates, 
the Bishops of Ely, Lincoln, and Hereford, brought her all their vassals; and Robert de 
Watteville, who had been sent to oppose her progress, deserted to her with all his forces. 

In this exigence the unfortunate Edward vainly attempted to collect his friends, 
and bring the malcontents to their duty : he was obliged to leave the capital to the 
resentment of the prevailing party; and the populace, immediately upon his desertion, 
flew out into those excesses which are the consequence of brutality unrestrained by 
fear. They seized Walter Stapleton, Bishop of Exeter, as he was passing through 
the city, beheaded him without any form of trial, and threw his body into the 
Thames. They also seized upon the Tower, and agreed to show no mercy to anv 
who should oppose their attempts. In the meantime, the king found that the spirit 
of disloyalty was not confined to the capital, but was diffused over the whole 
kingdom. He had placed some dependence upon the garrison which was stationed 
in the Castle of Bristol, under the command of the elder Spenser; but they mutinied 
against their governor, and that unfortunate favourite was delivered up, and 
condemned by the tumultuous barons to the most ignominious death. He was 
hanged on a gibbet in his armour, his body was cut to pieces and thrown to the 
dogs, and his head was sent to Winchester, where it was set on a pole, and exposed 
to the insults of the populace. Thus died the elder Spenser, in his ninetieth year, 
whose character even the malevolence of party could not tarnish. He had passed a 
'{outh of tranquillity and reputation ; but his fond compliance with his son’s 
ambition at length involved his age in ruin, though not disgrace. 




GOLDSMITH.] 


THE BALL OP EDWARD II. 


375 


Young Spenser, the unhappy son, did not long survive the father ; he was taken 
with some others who had followed the fortunes of the wretched king, in an obscure 
convent in Wales ; and the merciless victors resolved to glut their revenge in 
addins insult to cruelty. The queen had not patience to wait the formality of a 
trial ; but ordered him immediately to be led forth before the insulting populace, 
and seemed to take a savage pleasure in feasting her eyes with his distresses. The 
gibbet erected for his execution was fifty feet high ; his head was sent to London 
where the citizens received it in brutal triumph, and fixed it on the bridge Several 
other lords also shared his fate ; all deserving pity indeed, had they not themselves 
formerly justified the present inhumanity, by setting a cruel example. 

In the meantime, the king, who hoped to find refuge m Wales, was quickly dis¬ 
covered, and closely pursued by his triumphant enemies. Finding no hopes of 
succour in that part of the country, he took shipping for Ireland ; but even theie 
his wretched fortune seemed willing to persecute him; he was driven back by 
contrary winds, and delivered up to his adversaries, who expressed their satisfaction 
in the grossness of their treatment, he was conducted to the capital, amidst the 
insults and reproaches of the people, and confined in the Tower A charge was 
soon after exhibited, in which no other crimes but his incapacity to govern, his 
indolence, his love of pleasure, and his being swayed by evil counsellors, weie 
objected against him. His deposition was quickly voted by perliament ; a pension 
was assigned to him for his support ; his son Edward, a youth of fourteen, was 
fixed upon to succeed him, and the queen was appointed regent during the minority 

The deposed monarch but a short time survived his misfortunes ; he was sent 
from Drison to prison a wretched outcast, and the sport of his inhuman keepeis. 
He haTbe^at^t’consigned to the custody of 

nobleman showing some marks of respect and pity, be was taken out of his hands 
an“e“r to Lord Berkeley, Maltravers, and Gourney, who were intrusted 
with tt Targe of guarding him, each for a month. Whatever his treatment from 
Lord Berkeley might have been, the other two seemed resolved that lie should enjoy 

indignity upon hing as if their des> g oppression, it is said that 

the violence of his friends fcp. ^ this occasion; he looked upon 

with patience, but all ioitit ^ : e stv and, bursting into tears, 

his merciless insulters wit an air he should be more decently attended, 

exclaimed, that the tune* mig As ersecuto rs saw that his death 

This, however, was but a vain expectat option had been made in his 

might not arrive, even un er every cr^ 7, ^ ^ ^ desto ying him at once. 

favour, they resolved to nd * Maltravers repaired to Berkeley Castle, 

Accordingly, his two keepers G ™ d TTTTt’ed amethod of putting him 
where Edward was then confined ; and hav threw him on a bed, holding 

to death without any external fi S °L cd ove r him. hhey then ran a horn-pipe up 
him down by a table, whici y P . and thus burned his bowels 

his body, through which they conveyed ’^yTpected to have their 

without disfigunng his body^ By i ek ^ werc he ard at a distance from the 

STe "gave’ aTspmt of the murder ; and the whole was soon after divulge* 

by the confession of one of tbe accomplices. 







376 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[MARLOWS, 


106.—THE DEATH OF EDWARD II. 

Entei Matrevis , Gurney, and Soldiers , with King Edward. 


Marlowe. 


Mat. My lord, be not pensive ; we are your friends : 

Men arc ordain’d to live in misery ; 

Therefore, come ; dalliance dangereth our lives. 

Edw. Friends, whither must unhappy Edward go ? 

Will hateful Mortimer appoint no rest ? 

Must I be vexed like the nightly bird 
Whose sight is loathsome to all winged fowls ? 

When will the fury of his mind assuage ? 

When will his heart be satisfied with blood ; 

If mine will serve, unbowel straight this breast, 

And give my heart to Isabel and him : 

It is the chiefest mark they level at. 

Gur. Not so, my liege, the queen hath given this charge, 

To keep your grace in safety : 

Your passions make your dolours to increase. 

Edw. This usage makes my misery increase. 

But can my air of life continue long, 

When all my senses are annoyed with stench ? 

Within a dungeon England’s king is kept, 

Where I am starv’d for want of sustenance 
My daily diet is heart-breaking sobs, 

That almost rent the closet of my heart: 

Thus lives old Edward not reliev’d by any, 

And so must die, though pitidd by many 
Oh, water, gentle friends, to cool my thirst, 

And clear my body from foul excrements ! 

Mat. Here’s channel-water, as our charge is given : 

Sit down, for we ’ll be barbers to your grace. 

Edw. Traitors, away ! what, will you murder me, 

Or choke your sovereign with puddle-water ? 

Gur. No, but wash your face, and shave away your beard. 

Lest you be known, and so be rescued. 

Mat. Why strive you thus ! your labour is in vain. 

Edw. The wren may strive against the lion’s strength, 

But all in vain : so vainly do I strive 
To seek for mercy at a tyrant’s hand. 

[They ivash him with puddle-water , and shave his heard. 
Immortal powers, that know the painful cares 
That wait upon my poor distressed soul, 

Oh, level all your looks upon these daring men 
That wrong their liege and sovereign, England’s king ! 

Oh, Gaveston, it is for thee that I am wrong’d ! 

For me both thou and both the Spensers died ; 

And for your sakes a thousand wrongs I’ll take. 

The Spensers’ ghosts, wherever they remain, 

Wish well to mine ; then, tush, for them I’ll die. 

WXI 













MARLOWE.] 


THE DEATH OF EDWARD II. 


377 


Mai. ’Twixt theirs and yours shall be no enmity. 

Come, come, away ! now put the torches out ; 

We’ll enter in by darkness to Killingworth. 

* * * * * 

Enter the younger Mortimer. 

Y. Mor. The king must die, or Mortimer goes down ; 

The commons now begin to pity him : 

Yet he that is the cause of Edward’s death, 

Is sure to pay for it when his son’s of age ; 

And therefore will I do it cunningly. 

This letter written by a friend of ours, 

Contains his death, yet bids them save his life ; 1 Read*. 

Edwardum occidere nolite timere, bonum est, 

Fear not to kill the king , 'tis good he die ; 

But read it thus, and that’s another sense ; 

Edwardum occidere nolite. timere bonum est , 

Kill not the king , 'tis good to fear the worst. 

Unpointed as it is, thus shalt it go, 

That, being dead, if it chance to be found, 

Matrevis and the rest may bear the blame, 

And we be quit that caus’d it to be done. 

Within this room is lock’d the messenger 
That shall convey it, and perform the rest ; 

And by a secret token that he bears, 

Shall he be murder’d when the deed is done.— 

Lightborn, come forth ! 

Enter Lightborn. 

Art thou so resolute as thou wast ? 

Light. What else, my lord 1 and far more resolute. 

Y. Mor. And hast thou cast how to accomplish it ? 

Light. Ay, ay ; and none shall know which way he died. 

Y. Mor. But at his looks, Lightborn, thou wilt relent. 

Light. Belent! ha ! ha ! I use much to relent. 

Y. Mor. Well, do it bravely, and be secret. 

Light. You shall not need to give instructions ; 

’Tis not the first time I have kill’d a man : 

I lcarn’d in Naples how to poison flowers ; 

To strangle with a lawn thrust down the throat ; 

To pierce the wind-pipe with a needle’s point; 

Or, whilst one is asleep, to take a quill, 

And blow a little powder in his ears ; 

Or open his mouth, and pour quick-silver down. 

But yet I have a braver way than these. 

Y. Mor. What’s that ? 

Light. Nay, you shall pardon me ; none shall know my tricks. 

Y. Mor. I care not how it is, so it be not spied. 

Deliver this to Gurney and Matrevis [Gives Me'-. 

At every ten-mile end thou hast a horse : 

Take this [ Gives money] : away, and never see me more ! 

Light. No 1 









HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[MARLOWS. 


Y. Mor „ No ; unless thou bring me news of Edward’s death. 


Light. That will I quickly do. Farewell, my lord. 


[ Exit. 


* 


Enter Matrevis and Gurney. 

Mat. Gurney, I wonder the king dies not, 

Being in a vault up to the knees in water, 

To which the channels of the castle run, 

From whence a damp continually ariseth, 

That were enough to poison any man, 

Much more a king, brought up so tenderly. 

Gur. And so do I, Matrevis : yesternight 
I open’d but the door to throw him meat, 

And I was almost stifled with his savour. 

Mat. He hath a body able to endure 
More than we can inflict : and therefore now 
Let us assail his mind another while. 

Gur. Send for him out thence, and I will anger him. 

Mat. But stay ; who’s this ? 


Enter Lightborn. 


[Gives letter. 


Light. My Lord Protector greets you. 

Gur. What’s here 1 I know not how to construe it. 

Mat. Gurney, it was left unpointed for the nonce ; 

Edivardum occidere nolite tiniere , 

That’s his meaning. 

Light. Know you this token ? I must have the king. 

[Gives token. 

Mat. Ay, stay a while, thou shalt have answer straight. 

This villain’s sent to make away the king. 

Gur. I thought as much. 

Mat. And, when the murder’s done, 

See, how he must be handled for his labour,—• 

Pereat iste ! Let him have the king ; 

What else 1 —Here is the keys, this is the lake : 

Do as you are commanded by my lord. 

Light. I know what I must do. Get you away : 

Yet be not far off; I shall need your help : 

See that in the next room I have a fire, 

And get me a spit, and let it be red hot. 

Mat. Very well. 

Gur. Need you any thing besides ? 

Light. What else % a table and a feather bed. 

Gur. That’s all ? 

Light. Ay, ay : so, when I call you, bring it in. 

Mat. Fear not thou that. 

Gur. Here’s a light to go into the dungeon. 

[Exit with Matrevis. 

Light. So, now must I about this gear : ne’er was there any 
So finely handled as this king shall be.— 

Foh, here’s a place indeed, with all my heart ! 

Edw. Who’s there ? what light is that 1 wherefore com’st thou i 














MARLOWE.] 


THE DEATH OF EDWARD II. 


379 


Light. To comfort you, and bring you joyful news. 

Edw. Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy looks : 

Villain, I know thou com’st to murder me. 

Light. To murder you, my most gracious lord ! 

Far is it from my heart to do you harm. 

The queen sent me to see how you were used, 

For she relents at this your misery : 

And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears, 

To sec a king in this most piteous state 1 

Edw. Weep’st thou already ? list awhile to me, 

And then thy heart, were it as Gurney’s is, 

Or as Matrevis’, hewn from the Caucasus, 

Yet will it melt, ere I have done my tale. 

This dungeon where they keep me, is the sink 
Wherein the filth of all the castle falls. 

Light. Oh, villains ! 

Edw. And there, in mire and puddle have I stood 
This ten days’ space ; and, lest that I should sleep, 

One plays continually upon a drum ; 

They give me bread and water, being a king; 

So that, for want of sleep and sustenance, 

My mind’s distemper’d, and my body’s numb’d, 

And whether I have limbs or not I know not. 

Oh, would my blood dropp’d out from every vein, 

As doth this water from my tatter’d robes ! 

Tell Isabel the queen, I look’d not thus, 

When for her sake I ran at tilt in France, 

And there unhors’d the Duke of Cleremont. 

Light. Oh, speak no more, my lord ! this breaks my heart. 

Lie on this bed, and rest yourself a while. 

Edw. These looks of thine can harbour nought but death, 

I see my tragedy written in thy brows. 

Yet stay a while : forbear thy bloody hand, 

And let me see the stroke before it comes, 

That even then when I shall lose my life, 

My mind may be more stedfast on my God. 

Light. What means your highness to mistrust me thus ? 

Edw. What mean’st thou to dissemble with me thus ? 

Light. These hands were never stain’d with innocent blood. 

Nor shall they now be tainted with a king’s. 

Edw. Forgive my thought for having such a thought. 

One jewel have I left; receive thou this : [ Giving jewel, 

Still fear I, and I know not what’s the cause, 

But every joint shakes as I give it thee. 

Oh, if thou harbour’st murder in thy heart, 

'Let this gift change thy mind, and save thy soul ! 

Know that I am a king : oh, at that name 
I feel a hell of grief! where is my crown ? 

Gone, gone ! and do I still remain alive ? 

Light. You’re ever-watch’d, my lord : lie down and rest. 

Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep ; 

For not these ten days have these eye-lids clos d. 





380 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY 


[MARLOWE. 


Now, as I speak, they fall; and yet with fear 
Open again. Oh, wherefore sitt’st thou here ? 

Light. If you mistrust me, I’ll be gone, my lord. 

Edw. No, no; for, if thou mean’st to murder me, 

Thou wilt return again ; and therefore stay. 

Light. He sleeps. 

Edw. Oh, let me not die yet ! oh, stay a while ! 

Light. How now, my lord ? 

Edw. Something still buzzeth in my ears, 

And tells me, if I sleep, I never wake : 

This fear is that which makes me tremble thus ; 

And therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come ? 

Light. To rid thee of thy life.—Matrcvis, come ! 

Enter Matrevis and Gurney. 

Edw. I am too weak and feeble to resist.— 

Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul! 

Light. Run for the table. 

Edw. Oh, spare me, or despatch me in a trice ! 

Matrevis brings in a table. King Edward is murdered by holding 
him down on the bed with the table , and stamping on it. 

Light. So, lay the table down, and stamp on it, 

But not too hard, lest that you bruise his body. 

Mat. I fear me that this cry will raise the town, 

And therefore let us take horse and away. 

Light. Tell me, sirs, was it not bravely done ? 

Gur. Excellent well: take this for thy reward. 

[iSto&s Lightborn. 

Come, let us cast the body in the moat, 

And bear the king’s to Mortimer our lord : 

Away ! \Exeunt with the bodies. 


107.—THE ENGLISH POSSESSIONS IN FRANCE. 

B. St. Leger. 

There are few subjects connected with English history of which the general 
reader is more apt to lose sight, than the acquisition, the continuance, and the loss, 
of those possessions in France, which became attached to our own crown from its 
being worn by the princes of the lines of Normandy and of Anjou. The matters re¬ 
lating to these provinces are but episodical to the main story of our country ;—they 
were rather foreign dominions of the king than dependencies of the kingdom. From 
these causes, they appear upon the stage of our history only at distant and uncon¬ 
nected periods, when they chanced in any way to act upon the policy or the fortunes 
of England ;—and thus no distinct, consecutive, and unbroken picture remains 
impressed upon the mind concerning them. 

The English power in Aquitaine arose, as is well known, from the marriage of 
Henry II., with Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, and Countess of Poitou, the re¬ 
pudiated wife of Louis VII. of France. Eleanor had accompanied her first husband 
into Palestine, during one of the Crusades,—where, as he suspected, she was false 
to him in favour of a young Saracen. On his return to France, he applied to thy 





B. ST. LFGER.] THE ENGLISH POSSESSIONS IN FRANCE. 381 

church for a divorce ; and alleged the above reason in support of his demand. A 
council of prelates was accordingly liel 1; which, avoiding the discussion of so deli¬ 
cate a question, found a simpler mode of acceding to the king’s request. They 
discovered that Eleanor and her husband were cousins within the piohibited de¬ 
grees, and they therefore pronounced the marriage null and void. The lady, 
accordingly, the marriage tie being dissolved, set off to return into her own 
dominions. 

In her passage thither, she narrowly escaped marriage by force, two or three 
different times, from the gallant and loyal barons, through whose territories she 
passed. She was once imprisoned, and once, by a sudden change of route, escaped 
abduction ; the flaw in her character being thus, as it would seem, overlooked, 
in consideration of her rich and extensive dower. She resisted, however, this ap¬ 
proved method of wooing, (one of the suitors who employed it was Henry’s 
younger brother,) and at last arrived safely at Poitiers, the capital of her minoi 

state. 

It was hither that Henry, who had not yet succeeded to the ciown of England, 
came to try his fortune as a lover, and returned with the duchess as his bride into 
Normandy. For political, as well as personal, reasons, Louis had opposed this 
marriage. Henry was already duke of Normandy ; he was the heir-apparent (his 
father being still alive) to the counties of Anjou and Touraine,—and the countries 
belonging to Eleanor, completed (with the exception of Brittany), the whole of 
western France, from the borders of Picardy to the Pyrenees. The possessions of 
Louis himself were in no degree equal to these. They were less in point of extent, 
and still more inferior in wealth, commerce, and civilisation. In point of fact, the 
French king possessed, at that time, nothing to the south of the Loire. He had, it 
is true a suzerainty over the greater number of the various petty potentates, among 
whom that fine country was divided ;—but it was little more than nominal, and 
frequently resisted and disputed, even to that limited extent. In the present in¬ 
stance Louis endeavoured to exert, if not to stretch, the rights of a suzerain over a 
vassal-—by commanding Henry not to marry without his consent. But as the 
practical extent of these rights was usually commensurate with the power ot the 
respective parties, Henry paid no sort of attention to this mandate ;—-biit, having 
married Eleanor, did homage to the French king for the possessions which he had 

gained through her. , „ ,, 

To the inhabitants of Aquitaine, this change of husbands, on the part of their 

duchess, was by no means displeasing. It seems to have been the universal line 
of policy of the petty independencies, in the south of France, to endeavour to a y 
themselves as much as possible with potentates at a distance from their frontiers 
and to shun connection with those in nearer neighbourhood. ■ They felt that their 
liberties, even their distinctive existence, were likely to merge in a great neig i- 
bouring power, while from a distant ruler they had nothing of this kind to feat , 
and he, at the same time, would be able 'to protect them from encroachments on 
the former part, and would have a personal interest in doing so. Thus therefore, 
the Aquitains,—however they might have preferred a chief born among themse ves 
—received with pleasure rather than otherwise, the assumption by Henry ot the 
title and powers of duke, which, according to the customs of the time, his late 

marriage entitled him to assume. , . T il nf v>ia 

Not long after this event, Henry became Count of Anjou, by the death of 1 

father • oif the condition, however, (to which he swore), of yielding it to his younger 
brothel Geoffrey, as soon as he succeeded to the English crown Tins stipulation 
he never fulfilled; but, exercising the right of the strongest, he retained the m- 


» 






382 


^F-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[B. ST. LEGER, 

lieritance of his brother by force ; after whose death, he still further extended his 
possessions in France, jy the acquisition of Brittany. This originated in the pre¬ 
tended right of Henry to the small county of Nantes ; which, detaching itself from 
Celtic Brittany, of which it had been only a forced appendage, had called Geoffrey 
of Anjou, the dispossessed brother, to be their Count. As the inheritance of this very 
brother, did Henry claim Nantes and its territory ;—and by getting his foot into 
this stirrup, did he ultimately ride supreme over Brittany altogether. 

Thus did he become possessed of the whole western coast of France, south of 
Picardy ; and this was the zenith of the English power on the continent, previously 
to the time of Henry Y. 

But, though the inhabitants of Aquitaine preferred the alliance of the English to 
that of the French king, they still looked back with regret to the times when they 
were governed by one of their own nation, chosen by themselves—to the times, in 
a word, of their national independence. To regain this they made several struggles: 
especially, they took advantage of the dissension between Henry II. and his sons, 
to further this purpose. The county of Poitou, which had been a part of Eleanor’s 
dowry, as well as Aquitaine, had already been given to prince Richard, and the 
Aquitains more than once placed him at their head, in their revolts against his 
father. 

The repeated revolts, however, which took place in Aquitaine, during the latter 
part of the reign of Henry II., did not take it from under subjection to the English 
crown. On the contrary, it was destined to remain attached to our kings, after 
their old inheritance of Normandy was wrested from them, and incorporated with 
France. The immediate cause of this loss was the death of Arthur of Brittany. 

Normandy, in despite of the many points of collision which existed between it 
and France, properly so called, became amalgamated with it in a period singularly 
short. Before half a century had elapsed, the feelings of the Normans were com¬ 
pletely identified with those of the French, and became entirely sundered and 
foreign from their ancient brethren on the other side of the channel. 

But Aquitaine still remained. Poitou, indeed, passed under the power of the 
French king ; but further it did not extend. One of the most important of the 
many errors which arise, in reading the history of early times, from giving modern 
signification to words, is with reference to the kingdom of France. Even at the 
period of which I am treating, the beginning of the 13th century, it was only 
slowly, and by degrees, extending itself to the south of the Loire. When Philip 
Augustus embarked for Palestine, France, strictly so called, did not possess a single 
port in the Mediterranean ; nay, it did not reach to within many leagues of it. By 
the death of Arthur and the forfeiture of John, Poitou was now added to Philip’s 
dominions ; and as they thus adjoined Aquitaine, the people of the latter country, 
true to the principle I have more than once alluded to, adhered the more closely to 
England, in consequence of the nearer neighbourhood of France. During the reign 
of Henry III, there seems to have been but slight variation in the state of Aqui¬ 
taine ; and its affairs seem to have gone on very peaceably from this time till, in 
the middle of the subsequent reign, when Edward I. was immersed in his Scottish 
projects, Philip the Bold took advantage of a quarrel between the crews of a French 
and an English vessel, near Bayonne, to prosecute the ambitious views which the 
kings of France had long had upon Aquitaine. He accordingly sent a citation to 
Edward to appear before him at Paris, as his vassal for the duchy of Aquitaine, to 
answer for the outrages committed by his Gascon subjects. With this Edward did 
not choose to comply ; but he sent his brother Edmund, earl of Lancaster, to 
Paris, to negociate on the subject. Philip, however, who was exceedingly irritated, 




B. ST. LEGER. j THE ENGLISH POSSESSIONS IN FRANCE. 383 

would listen to no reasonable-terms ; and the earl had already set off on his return 
to England, when the two queens (consort and mother) interposed, and, through 
their active mediation, finally accomplished a pacification. 

This business was one of the few in which Edward I. was foiled. He was, in¬ 
deed, completely overreached, by a piece of bad faith on the part of the French 
king, quite as flagrant as any of those for which his own father had been so noto¬ 
rious. Philip, alleging that he had real cause of grievance against the Gascons, for 
their conduct towards his subjects,—it was agreed that, to save the point of 
honour the duchy should be yielded up into his hands; in consideration of which 
it should be immediately restored. As soon, however, as the French king had 
obtained possession, all restoration was flatly refused ; and a war, in consequence, 
ensued with various fluctuations of success,—which was concluded by the matters 
in dispute being referred to the arbitration of the pope. The pope ultimately de¬ 
creed, [a.d. 1299], “I. That king Edward, being then a widower, should marry 

the French king’s sister Margaret. II. That prince Edward, the king’s eldest son, 
should, at a convenient time, marry the lady Isabel, the French king’s daughter ; 
and III. That the king of England should make reparation for the French ships 
taken at the beginning of the war, and that sundry towns in Gascony should be 
put into the pope’s hands, that it might be understood unto whom the right 

appertained.” 

But this last article remained little better than a dead letter—the French king 
refusing to give up the towns which he held, and Edward, consequently, not paying 
compensation for the ships. About two years afterwards, however, the French 
king and the pope quarrelling, the former feared that the pontiff would excite 
Edward to make war upon him, on account of the retention of Gascony, and he 
accordingly yielded it up at once into his hands. The town of Bourdeaux had, 
shortly before, driven out the French ; and now, of their own accord, returned 
under the government of the English, to whom, at all times, they showed particular 

attachmen^ign ^ Edward jj ? ano ther somewhat similar attempt was made to de¬ 
prive England of her sway in Aquitaine, arising, like the former, from the anoma¬ 
lous claims of suzerainty over an independent monarch. Upon the refusal of 
Edward grounded upon some irregularity of the summons, the French king sent a 
considerable army into the south,which took possession of the Agenois,and threatened 
the whole duchy of Aquitaine. After considerable negociations the queen was 
sent over to her brother, to endeavour to bring matters to an amicable issue ; and 
it was ultimately agreed that the king of England should cede his continental 
J dominions consisting of the duchy of Aquitaine and the county of Ponthieu, to his 
eldest son’ who should do homage for them to the French king ; but that if the 
vouncr prince died before his father, these territories should then revert to him. 

^ Thus Edward III. became possessed of these French dominions before he suc¬ 
ceeded to the throne of England. The great contest that ensued for the succession 
to the French crown, gave an entirely new complexion to the nature of the king’s 
dominions on the continent; and, in this place, they come very prominently for¬ 
ward upon the surface of our national history. The mam interest, indeed, of that 
history lies with a few intervening exceptions, in its foreign wars, for upwards of 
a century from this period. For, it is not until the ultimate expulsion of the 
English in the reign of Henry VI., that the curtain can be considered as having 
finally fallen upon the great drama begun at the accession of Philip de Valois. 

In order distinctly to lay before the reader the order of descent from which the 
claim of Edward III. to the throne of France arose, I subjoin a table which will, I 
think, make it more clear than any verbal detail : 












384 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


Louis Hutin, 
K'ng of France; 
died in 1316. 


Jane, married 
to Philip, Count 
of Evreux. 


Charles, called 
the Bad, King 
of Navarre, 
born 1332. 


[B. 


PHILIP THE BOLD, KING OF FRANCE. 


Philip the Fair, King of France. 

_A___ 


Philip the Long, 
King of France; 
died in 1321. 


r 




Joan married 
to Eudes IV., 
Duke of 
Burgundy. 

Philip, Count 
of Artois, born 
in 1332. 


Margaret, 

married 

to Louis, Count 
of Flanders. 


Louis, of Male, 
Count of Flanders, 
born 1330. 


Charles the Fair, 
King of France; 

died in 13 8 ; 
leaving an only 
daughter who had 
no issue. 


Isabel, 
married to 
Edward II. 
of England. 

Edward III. 


ST. LEGER. 


Charles, 
Count de 
Valois 
his brothe-. 


Philip de 
Valois. 


Edward III. at first grounded his claim upon his being the male nearest in blood 
to the last king, who was capable of succeeding—he being his nephew, and Philip de 
Valois his cousin-german. According to the phraseology in which the dispute was 
conducted, he claimed not by right of representation (i.e., as representing his mother) 
but by right of 'proximity. The objections to this confused mode of argument 
appear to fne to be unanswerable. Edward’s right was derived through his mother; 
his claim, therefore, in fact, rested on his being grandson to Philip the Fair, (father 
of the three last kings), and consequently his heir in preference to his nephew. 
The first objection set up against this was the celebrated Salic law —which excluded 
females from succession to the crown of France. It being evident, however, that 
if the right of female succession were established, the daughters of any of the three 
last kings would have a claim preferable to his own, Edward admitted the authen¬ 
ticity of the Salic Law, as far as it regarded the exclusion of females themselves ; 
but he alleged that this was on account of “ the natural imbecility of their sex,” 
and did not apply to their heirs, though it did to themselves. To this was opposed 
the almost universal usage of feudal inheritance ; and the doctrine that no person 
could transmit a right which was not vested in himself. The extreme confusion 
that would arise from such a preposterous principle of succession is demonstrated 
by the circumstances of the present case. According to this doctrine, Edward 
would have succeeded to the French crown in 1328, on the death of Charles the Fair; 
but he would have been superseded by Louis of Male, who was born in 1330, of 
Margaret, second daughter of Philip the Long,—who again must have given place 
to his cousin Philip, Count of Artois, the son of Philip’s eldest daughter—who, in 
the very year of his birth, must have yielded to Charles of Navarre, the grandson 
through a female of Louis Hutin, the last king who had inherited through a direct 
male line ! A reference to the foregoing table will set this before the reader at a 
glance. Kecent circumstances, also, had served to give peculiar force to the Salic 
Law. From Hugh Capet to Louis Hutin, the crown had descended from father to 
son through eleven generations. At his death, his queen was left pregnant ; and 
his brother was appointed to the regency, in order to await the birth of the infant, 
that its sex might be ascertained. The queen produced a boy : but he died at the 
expiration of a few days ; and Philip the Long was then declared king. In the 
interim (17th July, 1316) a council, at which all the princes of the blood and the 
great barons assisted, determined that, if the queen bore a female, the crown of 
France descended of right to Philip the Long ; but that that of Navarre would 
belong to Jane, daughter of Louis Hutin, as females were not excluded from that 


crown. 

Notwithstanding this, on the death of the infant son of the queen, the Duke of 
Burgundy, who was maternal uncle to Jane, protested against Philip being crowned, 














B. ST. LEGER. 


THE ENGLISH POSSESSIONS IN FRANCE. 


385 


until Ills niece’s claims "had been investigated—although he had himself coincided 
in the decision of the council. Philip the Long, however, to set the question for 
ever at rest, convoked an assembly of all the great nobles of the state, including the 
bishops, and the University of Paris. Tins was held on the 2nd of February, 1317 ; 
when it was unanimously decided, “ That the laws and the customs inviolably 
observed among the French, excluded females from the crown.” To this decision 
the Duke of Burgundy and the Count de la Marche, (afterwards king, as Charles IY. 
or Le Bel,) who had joined in his former remonstrance, subscribed. 

Philip the Long also died without male issue ; and his brother, Charles the Fair, 
succeeded without opposition. He also died, leaving only a daughter, and his 
widow pregnant. It was now that the claim of Edward III. was first brought 
forward. For, as it was intended to appoint to the regency the prince who would 
succeed in the event of the queen bearing a daughter, Edward asserted that that 
person was himself. He sent, in consequence, ambassadors to Paris, who pleaded 
his cause, before the peers of France, in a solemn hearing of the cause, when the 
regency was conferred upon Philip of Valois. The queen was delivered of a 
daughter—and Philip then succeeded to the crown. 

Some months after this accession, Edward did homage to Philip as King of 
France, for his Duchy of Aquitaine—thereby acknowledging the right of that prince. 
He was, at that time, engaged in wars with Scotland, and was also very young, and 
but recently seated on the throne. When, therefore, he assumed the title of King 
of France, in 1339, he pleaded these circumstances as having enforced his previous 
submission. We will admit for a moment the excuse of present necessity (the 
excuse of all others to be admitted with the most jealousy) for this acknowledgment, 
—and still upon his own showing, and indeed upon each and every view of the 
question the right of Edward was utterly null and futile. Admitting the Salic Law 
fully, Philip was the rightful heir ; denying it fully, Jane, the daughter of Louis 
Hutin—and the two last kings had been usurpers ;—admitting it partially, (to the 
exclusion namely of females, but not ot their male heirs) Charles of Navai le, who, 
at that time, was seven years old. As for the jargon of pToxirnity, without tracing 
whence that proximity arose, it is a principle too extravagant even to be discussed ; 
and, indeed, the case was really argued on the ground of females transmitting their 
rights, as before stated. Surely, therefore, it is clear that there never was a claim 
less founded than that of Edward III. to the crown of France. 

Whoily untenable, however, as it was,—perhaps no other recorded in history 
ever occasioned such long and such bloody wars. 


108.—THE BATTLE OF CRESSY. 

Froissart. 

The English army, after ravaging and plundering through Normandy, had ad¬ 
vanced near to Paris, as if to threaten the capital; when suddenly it turned and 
retreated in the direction of Ponthieu, which, as well as Aquitaine, now belonged to 
the English king. He was followed by an immense army, commanded by Philip le 
Valois himself. The English, in their route, had to cross the river Somme, a diffi¬ 
cult matter, as the bridges were all cut down, with two or three exceptions only, and 
these, with the fords, were strongly guarded. At the ford of Blanchtache, however, 
after a spirited battle they forced their way, just in time to avoid an attack by Philip, 
at the head of his overwhelming forces. The French king, however, soon found 
that it was the position, and not the attack, that was objected to. That night the 
English king lay in the fields with his host, and “ made a supper to all his chief 

lords of his host and made them good cheer. And when they were all departed to 

c c 









FROISSAR? 


386 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 

take their rest, then the king entered into his oratory, and kneeled down before 
the altar praying God devoutly that if he fought the next day, that he might 
achieve the journey to his honour. Then about midnight he laid him down to rest, 
and in the morning he rose betimes, and heard mass, and the prince, his son^ (the 
Black Prince) with him, and the most part of his company were confessed and 
houseled. And after the mass said, he commanded every man to be armed, and 
to draw*to the field, to the same place before appointed. Then the king caused 
a park to be made by the wood-side, behind his host, and there was set all carts 
and carriages, and within the park were all their horses, for every man was 
afoot; and into this park there was but one entry.” After arranging the army 
in three battalions, “the king leapt on a hobby, with a wnite lod in his hand, 
of his marshals on the one hand, and the other on the other hand . he lode fiom 
rank to rank, desiring every man to take heed that day to his right and honour: 
he spake it so sweetly, and with so good countenance and merry cheer, tha* 
all such as were discomfited took courage in the seeing and hearing of him. 
And when he had thus visited all his battles (battalions) it was then nine of the 
day : then he caused every man to eat and drink a little, and so they did at their 
leisure ; and afterwards they ordered again their battles. Then every man lay 
down on the earth, and by him his salet and bow, to be the more fresher when 
their enemies should come.” It was in this position that they were found by the 
tumultuous French army, which came rushing on, crying “Down with them,” 
“ Let us slay them,” in such a manner, that, says Froissart, there was no man, 
though he were present at the journey, that could imagine or show the truth of the 
evil order” that was among them. The day of this meeting was Saturday, August 6, 
1346 . 

“ The Englishmen, who were in three battles, lying on the ground to rest them, 
as soon as they saw the Frenchmen approach, they rose upon their feet, fair and 
easily, without any haste, and arranged their battles : the first, which was the prince’s 
battle ; the archers there stood in manner of a herse (harrow), and the men-of-arms 
in the bottom of the battle. The Earl of Northampton and the Earl of Arundel, 
with the second battle, were on a wing in good order, ready to comfort the prince’s 
battle, if need were. The lords and knights of France came not to the assembly 
together in good order ; for some came before, and some came after, in such haste 
and evil order that one of them did trouble another. When the French king saw 
the Englishmen, his blood changed ; and (he) said to his marshals, ‘ Make the 
Genoese go on before, and begin the battle in the name of God and St. Denis? 
There were of the Genoese crossbows about fifteen thousand ; but they were so , 
weary of going a-foot that day a six league, armed with their crossbows, that they 
said to their constables, ‘We be not well ordered to fight this day, for we be notin 
the case to do any great deed of arms, as we have more need of rest? These words 
came to the Duke of Alengon, who said, ‘ A man is well at ease to be charged with 
such a sort of rascals, to be faint and fail now at most need? Also at the same 
season there fell a great rain and eclipse, with a terrible thunder ; and before the 
rain there came Hying over both battles a great number of crows, for fear of the 
tempest coming. Then anon the air began to wax clear and the sun to shine fair 
and bright, the which was right in the Frenchmen’s eyes and on the Englishmen’s 
backs. When the Genoese were assembled together, and began to approach, they 
made a great leap and cry to abash the Englishmen, but they stood still, and stirred 
not for all that. Then the Genoese again the second time made another leap, and 
a fell cry, and stept forward a little, and the Englishmen removed not one foot; 
thirdly, again they leaped and cried, and went forth till they came within shot, then 
they shot fiercely with their cross-bows. Then the English archers stept forth one 




FROISSART.] 


BATTLE OF CRESSY. 


387 


pass (pace), and let fly their arrows so wholly, and so thick, that it seemed snow. 
When the Genoese felt the arrows pressing through heads, arms, and breasts, many of 
them cast down their crossbows, and did cut their strings, and returned discomforted. 
When the French king saw them flee away, he said, ‘ Slay these rascals ; for they 
shall lett (hinder) and trouble us without reason.’ Then ye should have seen the 
men-of-arms dash in among them, and kill a great number of them , and ei still 
the Englishmen shot whereas they saw thickest press ; the sharp airows lan into 
the men-of-arms, and into their horses and many fell, horse and men, among the 
Genoese ; and when they were down, they could not relyne again, the press was so 
thick that one overthrew another. And also among the Englishmen there were 
certain rascals that went on foot, with great knives, and they went in among the 
men-of-arms, and slew and murdered many as they lay on the ground, both earls, 
barons, knights, and squires, whereof the King of England was after displeased, for 
he had rather they had been taken prisoners. The valiant King of Bohemia, called 
Charles of Luxenbourg, son to the noble emperor Henry of Luxenbourg, for ah that he 
was nio-h blind, when he understood the order of the battle, he said to them about 
him ‘ Where is the lord Charles, my son ] ’ His men said, ‘ Sir, we cannot tell, we 
think he be fighting.’ Then he said, ‘ Sirs, ye are my men, my companions and 
friends in this°journey ; I require you bring me so forward that I may strike one 
stroke with my sword.’ They said they would do his commandment ; and to the 
intent that they might not lose him in the press, they tied all the reins of their 
bridles each to other, and set the king before to accomplish his desire, and so they 
went on their enemies. The Lord Charles of Bohemia, his son, who wrote himself 
King of Bohemia, and bare the arms, he came in good order to the battle ; but when 
he saw that the matter went awry on their party, he departed, I cannot tell you 
which way The king his father was so far forward, that he struck a stroke with 
his sword yea and more than four, and fought valiantly, and so did his company, 
and they adventured themselves so forward, that they were all slam, and the next day 
they were found in the place about the king, and all their horses tied to each other. 

One of the most interesting incidents of the battle is connected with the behaviour 
of the king and his son ; and, absurdly enough, instead of appreciating the military 
sagacity of the former, and the full knowledge and sympathy with the feelings of 
his son and his companions, which induced him to send the message recorded in 
the following passage, doubts have been raised upon the incident relative to the 
Wa valour “The prince’s battalion at one period was very hard pressed ; and 
they with t^ prince sent a messenger to the king, who was on a little windm,11- 
hill then the knight said to the king, ‘Sir, the Ear of Warwick, and the Earl of 
Oxford Sir Reynold Cobham, and others, such as be about the prince, your son, are 
fiercely’ fought withal, and are sore handled, wherefore they desire you, that you and 
your battle will come and aid them, for if the Frenchmen increase, as hey doubt 
they will, your son and they will have much ado.’ Then the king said ‘ Is my son 
dead or hurt, or on the earth fell’d 1’ ‘ No Sir,’ qpoth the knight, but he is 

Wdlv matched wherefore he hath need of your aid.’ Well, said the king, return 
t 0 Mm and to them that sent you hither, and say to them, that they send no more 
to meVor any adventure that faileth, as long as my son is alive ; and also say to 
,, ,, , su ff er him this day to win his spurs, for, if God be pleased, I will 

thiTiourney be his, and the honour thereof, and to them that be about him ’ Then 
the knight returned again to them, and showed the king s words the whvchgrmUy 
the KI'1„ f. renined in that they had sent to the king as they did. 

VhTkZ of France stayed till the last. It was not until the evening that he could 
he 1 induced to acknowledge that all was lost. Then, when he “ had left about Mm 
io more than a threescore persons, one and other, whereof Sir John of Heynault 







HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


383 


[FROISSART. 


was one,who had remounted once the king (for his horse was slain with an arrow), 
then he’said to the king, 4 Sir, depart hence, for it is time ; lose not yourself wil¬ 
fully ; if ye have loss this time, ye shall recover it again another season ; ’ and so 
he took the king’s horse by the bridle and led him away in a manner per force. 
Then the kino- rode till he came to the castle of La Broyes ; the gate was closed, 
because it was by that time dark ; then the king called the captain, who came to 
the walls, and said, 4 Open your gate quickly, for this is the fortune of Franee.’ The 
captain knew then it was the king, and opened the gate and let down the bridge ; 
then the king entered, and he had with him but five barons, Sir John of Heynault,” 
and four others. The unhappy king, however, could not lest there, but diank, 
and departed thence about midnight. 

The recorded results of the battle would seem exaggerations but that they are so 
well authenticated. Besides the King of Bohemia, there perished the Duke of 
Lorraine the Earl of Alengon, whose overweening pride and impetuosity had so 
much contributed to the fatal result, the Count of Flanders, eight other Counts, 
two archbishops, several other noblemen, and it is said twelve hundred knights and 
thirty thousand common persons. Such was the cost to humanity of one day s 
proceedings in the endeavour to conquer France. 


109.—THE SIEGE OF CALAIS. 

Froissart. 

Only five days after the battle of Cressy, the people of Calais beheld the con¬ 
queror Edward III. before their town, and a siege commenced, almost unexampled 
for its severity, and the length of time it continued. The place might be consi¬ 
dered as impregnable to direct assault, and the defenders were prepared to resist 
to the last. Edward, therefore, determined to surround the city so completely, 
that neither ingress nor egress should take place, and leave the rest to time and 
famine. His fleet blocked the harbour, and stopped approach that way ; whilst on 
the land he formed vast intrenchments. For the accommodation of his soldiers he 
built an immense number of wooden huts or houses, which the French called the 
“ city of wood.” The brave governor of Calais, John de Vienne, understood clearly 
the purpose of all this, and immediately took such precautions as he deemed neces¬ 
sary. The nature of one of his precautions give us a fearful illustration of the 
calamities of war. Seventeen hundred poor persons of the town, 44 useless mouths,” 
as they were called, were driven out towards the English lines. Edward was then 
in one of his better moods ; he gave them all a good dinner, twopence in money 
each, and then dismissed them to take their several ways into the interior. A 
second experiment of the same kind was thought to be too much. Provisions 
having become exceedingly scarce, a new survey of the place was made, when five 
hundred more unfortunates were determined to be “useless mouths,” and dismissed 
as before. It is dreadful to reflect upon their fate. They were driven back at the 
sword’s point by the English soldiers, and as John de Vienne would not re-admit 
them, they are said to have all perished in the sight of their own townsmen. 
Strenuous exertions were made from time to time to relieve the place from the sea, 
and a few vessels did get in by stealth ; but afterwards ingenuity and strength be¬ 
came alike unavailable. The garrison then wrote to their king, Philip, to say they 
had eaten their horses, their dogs, and all the unclean animals they could find, and 
nothing remained but to eat each other. The letter fell into the hands of the 
English, and gave them a new motive for watchfulness, if any were needed, as it 
now became evident Calais must yield soon, or be relieved. Philip, however, knew 
the condition of the place, and resolved to make one great effort in its favour. The 








THE SIEGE OF CALAIS. 


389 


FROISSART.] 


Oriflamme, the sacred banner of the kingdom, that banner which was never to be 
used but on extraordinary occasions, was unfurled, and the vassals of the crown 
were summoned from every part to its support. In July, l 347, or eleven months 
after the commencement of the siege, the failing hearts of the garrison were in¬ 
spired with new energies by the sight of the goodly array, in the distance, of their 
sovereign army. How were they to be disappointed ! Philip, finding both the 
roads to the town so strongly guarded that he could only force his way by a very 
bold and costly attack, adopted an amusing expedient. He sent four of his prin¬ 
cipal lords to the English king, to complain that he was there to do battle, but 
could find no way to come to him , and therefore requested a meeting of council to 
advise a place. The nature of the answer may be readily imagined. And what did 
Philip then for the brave soldiers and citizens who had done everything for him?— 
turned round and retraced the road he had come. All the sufferings the defenders 
of Calais had experienced must have been light compared to the bitterness of their 
feelings as they saw the gradual disappearance of the army which had come ex¬ 
pressly for their relief, yet failed even to strike a single blow. Such is the position 
of affairs at the moment Froissart commences the relation of an incident which has 
made the siege of Calais a memorable event throughout the civilised world, and 
shed lustre over it which appears only the more permanently brilliant in contrast 
with the factitious glare of mere military glory by which it was surrounded. 

“ After that the French king was thus departed from Sangate, they within Calais 
saw well how their succour failed them, for the which they were in great sorrow. 
Then they desired so much their captain, Sir John of Yienne, that he went to the 
walls of the town, and made a sign to speak with some person of the host. When 
the king heard thereof, he sent thither Sir Walter of Manny and Sir Basset; then 
Sir John of Vienne said to them, ‘ Sirs, ye be right valiant knights in deeds of 
arms, and ye know well how the king my master hath sent me and others to this 
town, and commanded us to keep it to his behoof, in such wise that we take no 
blame nor to him no damage ; and we have done all that lieth in our power. Now 
our succours hath failed us, and we be so sore strained, that we have not to live 
withali, but that we must all die,- or else enrage for famine, without the noble and 
gentle king of yours will take mercy on us, and to let us go and depart as we be, 
and let him take the town and castle and all the goods that be therein, the 
which is great abundance.’ Then Sir Walter of Manny said, ‘ Sir, we know some¬ 
what of the intention of the king our master, for he hath showed it unto us ; surely 
know we for truth it is not his mind that ye nor they within the town should de¬ 
part so for it is his will that ye all should put yourselves into his pure will to 
ransom all such pleaseth him, and to put to death such as he list ; for they of 
Calais had done him such contraries and despites, had caused him to dispend so 
much goods and lost many of his men, that he is sore grieved against them.’ Then 
the captain said, ‘ Sir, this is too hard a matter to us ; we are here within, a small 
sort (company) of knights and squires, who have truly served the king our master, as 
well as ye serve yours in like case, and we have endured much pain and unease ; 
but we shall yet endure as much pain as ever knights did, rather than to consent 
that the worst lad in the town should have any more evil than the greatest of us 
all • therefore, sir, we pray you that of your humility, yet that ye will go and speak 
to the king of England, and desire him to have pity of us, for we trust in him so 
much gentleness, that by the grace of God, his purpose shall change.’ Sir Walter of 
Manny and Sir Basset returned to the king and declared to him all that had been 
said The king said he would none otherwise, but that they should yield them up 
simnlv to his pleasure. Then Sir Walter said, ‘ Sir, saving your displeasure m 
this ye may be in the wrong, for ye shall give by this an evil example: if ye send 








390 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[FROISSART. 


any of us your servants into any fortress, we will not be very glad to go if ye put 
any of them in the town to death after they be yielded, for in likewise they will 
deal with us if the case fell like ; ’ the which words divers other lords that were 
there present sustained and maintained. Then the king said, ‘Sirs, I will not be 
alone against you all ; therefore, Sir Walter of Manny, ye shall go and say to the 
captain, that all the grace that he shall find now in me is, that they let six of the 
chief burgesses of the town come out bare-headed, bare-footed, and bare-legged, and 
in their shirts, with halters about their necks, with the keys of the town and castle 
in their hands, and let them six yield themselves purely to my will, and the residue 
I will take to mercy.’ Then Sir Walter returned, and found Sir John of Vienne 
still on the wall, abiding of an answer ; then Sir Walter showed him all the grace 
that he could get of the king. ‘Well,’ quoth Sir John, ‘ Sir, I require you tarry 
here a certain space till I go into the town and show this to the commons of the 
town, who sent me thither.’ Then Sir John went into the market-place and sounded 
the common bell; then incontinent men and women assembled there. Then the 
captain made report of all that he had done, and said, ‘Sirs, it will be none other¬ 
wise, therefore take advice and make a short answer.’ Then all the people began 
to weep and make such sorrow, that there was not so hard a heart, if they had seen 
them, but that would have had great pity of them: the captain himself wept piteously. 
At last the most rich burgess of all the town, called Eustace de St. Pierre, rose up 
and said openly, ‘ Sirs, great and small, great mischief it should be to suffer to die 
such people as be in this town, either by famine or otherwise, when there is a mean 
to save them. I think he or they should have great merit of our Lord God that 
might keep them from such mischief. As for my part, I have so good trust in our 
Lord God, that if I die in the quarrel to save the residue, that God would pardon 
me ; wherefore, to save them I will be the first to put my life in jeopardy.’ When 
he had thus said, every man worshipped him, and divers kneeled down at his 
feet with sore weeping and sore sighs. Then another honest burgess rose and 
said, ‘ I will keep company with my gossip Eustacehe was called Jehan D’Aire. 
Then rose up Jacques de Wisant, who was rich in goods and heritage ; he said also 
that he would hold company with his two cousins in likewise ; so did Peter of 
Wisant, his brother ; and then rose two other; they said they would do the same. 
Then they went and apparelled them as the king desired. Then the captain went 
with them to the gate ; there was great lamentation made of men, women, and 
children at their departing. Then the gate was opened, and he issued out with the 
six burgesses, and closed the gate again ; so they were between the gate and the 
barriers. Then he said to Sir Walter of Manny, ‘ Sir, I deliver here to you as 
captain of Calais, by the whole consent of all the people of the town, these six 
burgesses, and I swear to you truly, that they be, and were to-day, most honour¬ 
able, rich, and most notable burgesses of all the town of Calais ; wherefore, gentle 
knight, I require you pray the king to have mercy on them, that they die not.’ 
Quoth Sir Walter, ‘ I cannot say what the king will do, but I shall do for them the 
best I can.’ Then the barriers were opened, the burgesses went towards the king, 
and the captain entered again into the town. When Sir Walter presented these 
burgesses to the king, they kneeled down, and held up their hands and said, 
Gentle king, behold here we six, who were burgesses of Calais, and great mer¬ 
chants ; we have brought the keys of the town and of the castle, and we submit 
ourselves clearly into your will and pleasure, to save the residue of the people of 
Calais who have suffered great pain. Sir, we beseech your grace to have mercy and 
pity on us through your high nobles.’ Then all the earls and barons and other 
that were there wept for pity. The king looked felly (savagely or vindictively) on 
them, for greatly he hated the people of Calais for the great damage and displeasures 













THE SIEGE OF CALAIS. 


391 


FROISSART.] 

they had done him On the sea before. Then he commanded their heads to be 
stricken off. Then every man required the king for mercy, but he would hear nc 
man in that behalf. Then Sir Walter of Manny said, ‘Ah, noble king, for God’s 
sake refrain your courage ; ye have the name of sovereign noblesse ; therefore, now 
do not a thing that should blemish your renown, nor to give a cause to some to 
speak of you villainously ; every man will say it is a great cruelty to put to death 
such honest persons, who by their own wills put themselves into your grace to save 
their company.’ Then the king wryed away from him, and commanded to send 
for the hangman, and said, ‘They of Calais have caused many of my men to be 
slaine, wherefore these shall die in likewise.’ Then the queen, being great with 
child, kneeled down, and sore weeping, said, ‘ Ah, gentle sir, sith I passed the sea 
in great peril I have desired nothing of you; therefore, now I humbly require you, 
in the honour of the son of the Virgin Mary, and for the love of me, that ye will 
take mercy of these six burgesses.’ The king beheld the queen, and stood still in 
a study a space, and then said, ‘ Ah, dame, I would ye had been as now in some 
other place ; ye make such request to me that I cannot deny you, wherefore I give 
them to you to do your pleasure with them.’ Then the queen caused them to be 
brought into her chamber, and made the halters to be taken from their necks, and 
caused them to be new clothed, and gave them their dinner at their leisure, and then 
she gave each of them six nobles, and made them to be brought out of the host in 
safe-guard, and set at their liberty.” 


110.—BATTLE OE POITIERS. 

Froissart. 

From the period of the siege of Calais to that of which we are about to speak, 
the chief events may be briefly passed over. A truce for six years was agreed to, 
which was but indifferently kept on either side. W hilst it lasted, offers were made 
on the part of Edward to renounce all pretensions to the throne of France, if King 
John would yield the absolute sovereignty of Guienne, Calais, and the other terri¬ 
tories which had been held by former English monarchs as fiefs. John consented, 
but his people were most indignant, and would not ratify the arrangement. So in 
1355 the Black Prince set out on an expedition from Bordeaux with sixty thousand 
men, only a small part of whom were his countrymen. This cruel and ferocious 
march offers a strange contrast to the gentleness and delicacy which have stamped 
their impress upon occasional incidents in the career of the Prince, and in none 
more so than in one of those connected with the field of Poitiers, of which we shall 
have to speak. But such were the inconsistencies of chivalry, even in its highest 
stage of development. The Prince’s route lay towards the foot of the Pyrenees, 
thence northward to Toulouse, where he once more changed his direction in oidei 
to seize the rich cities of Carcassonne and Narbonne, whence he returned to 
Bordeaux. And through all that fair country, a stranger might have followed his 
track by the blackened ruins of the towns and villages burnt, and the dismal out¬ 
cries of their unhappy inhabitants. “ When they entered into a town, and found 
it well replenished of all things, they tarried there a two or three days to refresh 
them. When they departed; they would destroy all the residue, strike out. the 
heads of the vessels of wine, and burn wheat, barley, and oats, and all otliei things, 
to the intent that their enemies should have no aid thereof.” Whilst the French, 
maddened by their disgraces and sufferings, were making the most strenuous efforts 
to collect an overwhelming force to crush the invader, the Black Prince in the fol¬ 
lowing year commenced a similar expedition, though with a force not exceeding 


i 







392 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[FROISSART, 


twelve or fourteen thousand men. It was in the full tide of success of this march, 
that he suddenly found himself encompassed on all sides. So universal a feeling of 
detestation had penetrated the hearts and minds of the French people, that not a 
single individual could be found to give him intelligence of the position or number 
of King John’s forces, and but for the wonderful steadiness and courage that have 
so often, in a military sense, redeemed our military errors, those plundering and 
ravaging expeditions might have worked a fatal retribution. It was late in the 
night of Saturday, the 16th of September, that a part of the English, who had been 
sent forward in advance of the army, “ saw the great battle of the king : they saw 
all the field covered with men-of-arms.” After a little skirmish, “ which these 
English could not forbear,” they “ returned again to the Prince, and showed him 
all that they saw and knew : and said that the French host was a great number of 
people. ‘ Well,’ said the Prince, ‘ in the name of God let us now study how we 
shall fight with them at our advantage.’ That night the Englishmen lodged in a 
strong place among hedges, vines, and bushes ; and their host was well watched.” 

On the French side, the king and his four sons, having been houseled, that is to j 
say, having received the communion, drew forth his army into the field. “ Then 
trumpets blew up through the host, and every man mounted on horseback, and 
went into the field, where they saw the king’s banner wave with the wind. There 
might have been seen great nobles of fair harness [armour], and rich armoury of 
banners and pennons ; for there was all the flower of France ; there was none durst 
abide at home, without he would be shamed for ever.” Three knights having been 
sent to learn the array and power of the English, said on their return, “ Sir, we 
have seen the Englishmen ; by estimation they be two thousand men-of-arms, and 
four thousand archers, and a fifteen hundred of other : howbeit, they be in a strong 
place ; and, as far as we can imagine, they are in one battle : howbeit, they be 
wisely ordered, and along the way they have fortified strongly the hedges and bushes: 
one part of their archers are along by the hedges, so that none can go nor ride that 
way, but must pass by them ; and that way must ye go, an ye purpose to fight 
with them. In this hedge there is but one entry and one issue by likelihood that 
four horsemen may ride a-front. At the end of this hedge whereas no man can go 
nor ride, there be men-of-arms afoot, and archers afore them, in manner of a herse,* 
so that they will not lightly be discomfited.” Such was the English position : as 
to the order of attack which the French ultimately determined upon, it may be best 
seen in development. 

On the Sunday morning a new parsonage came upon the scene, the Cardinal of 
Perigord, who had been sent by the pope to endeavour to make peace between the 
King of France and his enemies. And most earnest was the Cardinal in the per¬ 
formance of his duty. First, in great haste, he came to king John, and knelt before 
him, holding up his hands, saying, “ Sir, ye have here all the flower of your realm 
against a handful of Englishmen, as regards your company ; and, Sir, if ye may 
have them accorded to you without battle, it shall be more profitable and honourable 
to have them by that manner, rather than to adventure so noble chivalry as ye 
have here present. Sir, I require you, in the name of God and humility, that I 
may ride to the Prince, and show him what danger ye have him in.’ The kin<* 
said, ‘ It pleaseth me well ;. but return again shortly.’ The Cardinal departed, and 
diligently he rode to the Prince, who was among his men afoot. Then the Cardinal 
alighted, and came to the Prince, who received him courteously. Then the Car¬ 
dinal, after his salutation made, said, ‘ Certainly, fair son, if you and your council 
advise justly the puissance of the French King, ye will suffer me to treat to make 

bolrd 1 haiT ° W; 1 C ' the men W6re placed in the 0rder of the mimic combatants of a draught- 







FROISSART.] 


THE BATTLE OP POITIERS. 


393 


a peace between you, an I may.’ The Prince, who was young and lusty, said, Sir* 
the honour of me and my people saved, I would gladly fall to any reasonable way. 
The Cardinal now u rode again to the king, and said, ‘ Sir, ye need not to make any 
great haste to fight with your enemies, for they cannot flee from you though they 
would, they be in such a ground : wherefore, Sir, I require you forbear for this day, 
till to-morrow the sun rising.’ The king was loath to agree thereto, foi some of his 
council would not consent to it: but, finally, the Cardinal showed such reasons, 
that the king accorded that respite. And in the same place there was put up a 
pavilion of red silk, fresh and rich, and leave gave for that day every man to diaw 
to his lodgings, except the Constable’s and Marshal s battles. 

All efforts at reconciliation, however, were vain, although “ that Sunday, all the 
day, the Cardinal travelled in riding from one host to the other, gladly to agree 
them.” Many offers were made on both sides. In the main, the French king de¬ 
manded that four of the principal Englishmen should be placed at his absolute dis¬ 
posal, and the Prince and all others to yield themselves as prisoners. The Prince 
offered to render all the towns and castles he had won in the present expedition, as 
well as the prisoners taken, and to swear not to bear arms against the Fienchfor 
seven years. At last King John made his final offer, that the Prince and a hundied 
of his knights only should yield themselves prisoners, which was absolutely rejected; 
and the Cardinal in despair returned to Poitiers, in the neighbourhood of which 

the battle was fought. 

All this while our countrymen were making admirable use of the time, strength¬ 
ening the hedges, and widening and deepening the dykes. At sunrise on Monday 
morning the indefatigable Cardinal was once more seen passing to and fro between 
the hosts, thinking, says Froissart, “ by his preaching to pacify the parties.” Short 
and abrupt was the answer he received on each side. “ Return whither ye will, 
said the Frenchman impatiently : “ bring hither no more words of treaty or peace ; 
and if ye love yourself, depart shortly ” Hastening then to the Prince he said, 
evidently with deep emotion, « Sir, do what you can—there is no remedy but to 
abide the battle, for I can find none accord in the French king.’ The Prince simply 
and cheerfully answered, “ The same is our intent and all our people: God help 
the right! ” As the Cardinal disappeared, the Prince turned to his men, and thus 
addressed them “ Now, Sirs, though we be but a small company, as m regard to 
the puissance of our enemies, let us not be abashed therefore ; for the victory lieth 
not in the multitude of people, but whereas God will send it. If it fortune that the 
iournev be ours, we shall be the most honoured people of all the world ; and if we 
die in our right quarrel, I have the king, my father, and brethren, and also ye 
have good friends and kinsmen ; these shall revenge us Therefore Sirs, for 
God’s sake, I require you do your devoirs this day ; for if God be pleased 
and Saint George, this day ye shall see me a good knight. And, continues 
Froissart, “ these words and such other that the Prince spake, comforted all Ins 

1)6 The battle began on all sides as the battalions of the Marshal of France approached, 
evidently in order to break the array of the archers. - They entered on horseback into 
the way where the great hedges were on both sides set full of archers. As soon as the 
men-of-arms entered, the archers began to shoot on both sides and did slay and 
hurt horses and knights ; so that the horses, when they felt the sharp arrows, they 
would in no wise go forward, but drew back and flung, and took on so fiercely, that 
many of them fell on their masters, so that for the press they could not rise again, 
inasmuch that the Marshal’s battle could never come at the Prince. Certain knights 
and squires that were well horsed, passed through the archers, and thought to ap- 
proach to the Prince, but they could not * * * * So within a short space 






394 


HALF HOURS OE ENGLISH HISTORY. [FROISSART. 


the Marshal’s battles were discomfited, for they fell one upon another, and could 
not go forth ; and the Frenchmen that were behind, and could not get forward, 
recoiled back and came on the battle of the Duke of Normandy, the which was 
great and thick, and were afoot. But anon, they began to open behind ; for when 
they knew that the Marshal's battle was discomfited, they took their horses and 
departed, he that might best; also they saw a rout of Englishmen coming down a 
little mountain a-horseback, and many archers with them, who broke in on the 
side of the duke’s battle. 

<£ True to say, the archers did their company that day great advantage, for they 
shot so thick, that the Frenchmen wist not on what side to take heed ; and, little 
and little, the Englishmen won ground on them ; and when the men-of-arms of 
England saw that the Marshal’s battle was discomfited, and the Duke’s battle began 
to disorder and open, they leaped then on their horses, the which they had ready 
by them. Then they assembled together, and cried, £ St. George for Guienne!’ and 
the Lord Chandos said to the Prince, c Sir, take your horse and ride, for then this 
journey is yours. God is this day in your hands—get us to the French king’s 
battle, for there lieth all the sore of the matter. I think verily by his valiantness 
he will not fly ; I trust we shall have him, by the grace of God and St. George, so 
he be well fought withal ; and, Sir, I heard you say that this day I shall see you a 
good knight.’ The prince said, ‘ Let us go forth ; ye shall not see me this day re¬ 
turn back and said, ‘ Advance, banner, in the name of God and St. George !’ The 
knight that bore it did his commandment ; there was then a sore battle and peri¬ 
lous, and many a man overthrown, and he that was once down could not be relieved 
again without great succour and aid. As the prince rode and entered in among his 
enemies, he saw on his right hand, in a little bush, lying dead, the Lord Kobert of 
Duras, and his banner by him. Then the prince said to two of his squires, and to 
three archers, ‘ Sirs, take the body of this knight on a targe and bear him to Poitiers, 
and present him from me to the Cardinal of Perigord, and say how I salute him by 
that token;’ and this was done.’ ***** 

“ The Prince was informed that the Cardinal’s men were on the field against him, 
the which was not pertaining to the right order of arms, for men of the church, 
that cometh and goeth for treaty of peace, ought not by reason to bear harness, 
nor to fight for neither of the parties.” 

In this battle the king of France displayed great personal courage. His 
youngest son Philip, a boy of sixteen, fought by his side. The king would have 
been slain but for the exertions of a French knight, in the English service. He 
called to the king, ‘ Sir, yield you.’ The king beheld the knight, and said, ‘ To 
whom shall I yield me ? Where is my cousin the Prince of Wales ?—if I might 
see him I would speak with him.’ Denis answered and said, ‘ Sir, he is not 
here ; but yield you to me, and I shall bring you to him.’ ‘ Who be you f 
quoth the king. ‘ Sir, I am Denis of Morbecque, a knight of Artois ; but I serve 
the king of England because I am banished the reaim of France, and I have 
forfeited all I had there.’ Then the king gave him his right gauntlet, saying, ‘ I 
yield me to you.’ ” The whole scene following is such an admirable piece of 
dramatic and picturesque composition, that we cannot venture to abridge or mutilate 
it. At this time “ there was a great press about the king, for every man enforced 
him to say, ‘ I have taken him,’ so that the king could not go forward with his 
young son the lord Philip with him, because of the press. The Prince of Wales, who 
was courageous and cruel as a lion , took that day great pleasure to fight and to chase 
nis enemies ; the lord John Chandos, who was with him of all that day, never left 
nim, nor never took heed of taking any prisoner. Then, at the end of’the battle, 
he said to the prince, ‘ Sir, it were good that you rested here, and set your banner 













THE BATTLE OF POITIERS. 


395 


FROISSART.] 


a-higli in this hush, that your people may draw hither, for they be sore spread 
abroad, nor I can see no more banners nor pennons of the French party ; where¬ 
fore, sir, rest and refresh you, for ye be sore chafed.’ Then the prince s banner 
was set up a-high on a bush, and trumpets and clarions began to sound. Then 
the prince did off his bascinet, and the knights for his body and they of his chamber 
were ready about him, and a red pavilion pight up ; and then drink was brought 
forth to the prince, and for such lords as were about him, the which still increased 
as they came from the chase. There they tarried and their prisoners with them. 
And when the two marshals were come to the prince, he demanded of them if 
they knew any tidings of the French king : they answered and said, feir, we heai 
none of certainty, but we think verily he is either dead or taken, for he is not 
gone out of the battle.’ Then the prince said to the earl of Warwick and Sii 
Reginald Cobham, ‘Sirs, I require you to go forth, and see what ye can know, 
that at your return ye may show me the truth.’ These two lords took their 
horses, and departed from the prince, and rode up a little hill to look about them . 
then they perceived a flock of men-at-arms coming together right wearily ; there 
was the French king afoot in great peril, for Englishmen and Gascons weie his 
masters ; they had taken him from Sir Denis of Morbecque perforce, and such as 
were most of force said, ‘ I have taken him ‘ Nay,’ quoth another, ‘ I have taken 
him ;’ so they strave which should have him. Then the French king, to eschew 
that peril, said, ‘Sirs, strive not; lead me courteously and my son to my cousin 
the prince, and strive not for my taking, for I am so great a lord (as to be able) 
to make you all rich.’ The king’s words somewhat appeased them ; howbeit, ever 
as they went they made riot, and brawled for the taking of the king. When the 
two aforesaid lords saw and heard that noise and stiife among them, they came to 
them and said, ‘Sirs, what is the matter that ye strive foi ? Siis, saic one o 
them, ‘ it is for the French king, who is here taken prisoner, and there be more 
than ten knights and squires that challengeth the taking of him and of his son. 
Then the two lords entered into the press, and caused every man to draw back, 
and commanded them in the prince’s name, on pain of their heads, to make no 
more noise, nor to approach the king no nearer, without they were commanded. 
Then every man gave room to the lords, and they alighted and did their reverence 
to the king, and so brought him and his son in peace and rest to the Prince of 


Wales.” 

The battle began in the morning and ended at noon, and in that short space of 
time there was slain ‘‘all the flower of France ; and there was taken, with the 
king and the lord Philip his son, a seventeen earls, besides barons, knights,, and 
squires.” Indeed, “ when every man was come from the chase, they had twice as 
many prisoners as they were in number in all; then it was counselled among them 
because of the great charge and doubt to keep so many, that they should put many 
of them to ransom incontinent (immediately) in the field, and so they did ; and 
the prisoners found the English and Gascons right courteous. There were many 
that day put to ransom and let go, all only on their promise of faith and truth to 
return again, between that and Christmas, to Bordeaux with their ransoms, 
that night they lay in the field, beside whereas the battle had been : some unarmed 
them, but not all; and unarmed all their prisoners, and every man made good cheei 
to his prisoner; for that day whosoever took any prisoner he was clear his, and 
micrht quit or ransom him at his pleasure. All such as were there with the prince 
wefe all made rich with honours and goods, as well by ransoming of prisoners as 
bv winning of gold, silver, plate, jewels, that was there founc. 

Several fnteresting incidents marked the battle, and these Froissart has recorded 
with in His usual delightful simplicity and freshness. Among the noblemen who 





396 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [FROISSART, 

particularly distinguished themselves on the English side was the lord James Audiey, 
who, “ with the aid of his four squires, fought always in the chief of the battle : he 
was sore hurt in the body and in the visage ; as long as his breath served him he 
fought: at last, at the end of the battle, his four squires took him and brought 
him out of the field, and laid him under a hedge-side for to refresh him, and they 
unarmed him, and bound up his wounds as well as they could.” Scarcely was the 
fight over, before the prince, remembering him of his faithful servant, sent to him, 
saying, “ Go and know if he may be brought hither, or else I will go and see him 
there as he is.” Feeble as he was, this message infused new strength into the brave 
knight’s body, and he caused himself to be borne in a litter before the prince, who 
took him in his arms, and kissed him, and made him “ great cheer.” “Sir James,” 
said he, “I and all ours take you in this journey for the best doer in arms : and 
to the intent to furnish you the better to pursue the wars, I retain you for ever to 
be my knight, with five hundred marks of yearly revenues, the which I shall assign 
you on mine heritage in England.” With one more little story, we conclude these 
episodes of the great field of Poitiers. Also it fortuned that another squire of 
Picardy, called John de Helenes, was fled from the battle, and met with his page, 
who delivered him a new fresh horse, whereon he rode away alone. The same 
season there was in the field the lord Berkley of England, a young lusty knight, 
who the same day had reared his banner, and he all alone pursued the said John of 
Helenes ; and when he had followed the space of a league, the said John turned 
again and laid his sword in the rest instead of a spear, and came running toward 
the lord Berkley, who lifted up his sword to have stricken the squire, but when he 
saw the stroke come, he turned from it, so that the Englishman lost his stroke, 
and John struck him as he passed on the arm that the lord Berkley’s sword fell 
into the field : when he saw his sword down, he lighted suddenly off his horse, 
and came to the place where his sword lay ; and as he stooped down to take up 
his sword, the French squire did prick his sword at him, and by hap struck him 
through both the thighs, so that the knight fell to the earth and could not help 
himself: and John alighted off his horse and took the knight’s sword that lay on 
the ground, and came to him, and demanded if he would yield him or not: the 
knight then demanded his name. ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘I hight John of Helenes, but 
what is your name V ‘Certainly,’ said the knight, ‘my name is Thomas, and lam 
lord of Berkley, a fair castle on the river of Severn, in the marches of Wales.’ 

‘ Well, Sir,’ quoth the squire, ‘ then ye shall be my prisoner, and I shall bring you 
in safeguard, and I shall see that you shall be healed of your hurt.’ ‘ Well,’ said 
the knight, ‘ I am content to be your prisoner, for ye have by law of arms won me.’ 
There he sware to be his prisoner, rescue or no rescue. Then the squire drew 
forth the sword out of the knight’s thighs, and the wound was open ; then he 
wrapped and bound the wound, and set him on his horse, and so brought him fair 
and easily to Chatel-Herault, and there tarried more than fifteen days for his sake 
and did get him remedy for his hurt; and when he was somewhat amended, then 
he got him a litter, and so brought him at his ease to his house in Picardy; there 
he was more than a year, till lie was perfectly whole. And when he departed he 
paid for his ransom six thousand nobles, and so this squire was made a knight by 
reason of the profit that he had of the lord Berkley.” 

The supper that night on the field will, no doubt, live in the memory of most 
readers. Certainly never did chivalry show itself more vividly in the contrasted 
light which it so loved—of its terrible power and recklessness in the field, and its 
almost feminine grace and gentleness out of it—than at Poitiers. We have seen 
what the battle was : here is Froissart’s notice of the supper. “ The prince made 
the king and his son, the lord James of Bourbon the lord John d’ Artois, the earl 










THE BATTLE OF POITIERS. 


397 


FROISSART.] 


of Tancarville, the earl d’Estampcs, the earl Dammartyn, the earl of Greville, and 
the lord of Pertney, to sit all at one board, and other lords, knights, and squires 
at other tables ; and always the prince served before the king, as humbly as he 
could, and would not sit at the king’s board, for any desire that the king could 
make : but he said he was not sufficient to sit at the table with so great a prince 
as the king was : but then he said to the king, ‘ Sir, for God’s sake make none evil 
nor heavy cheer, though God did not this day consent to follow your will: for, sir, 
surely the king my father shall bear you as much honour and amity as he may 
do, and shall accord with you so reasonably, that ye shall ever be friends together 
after: and, sir, methink you ought to rejoice, though the journey be not as you 
would have had it : for this day ye have won the high renown of prowess, and 
have past this day in valiantness all other of your party. Sir, I say not this to 
mock you : for all that be on our party, that saw every man’s deeds, are plainly 
accorded by true sentence to give you the prize and chaplet.’ ” 


111.—EDWARD III. AND THE COUNTESS OF SALISBURY. 

Old Play. 

[There is something more than pageantry and fighting in Froissart s story of 
Edward III. and the Countess of Salisbury, viewed in connection with the Order of 
the Garter. How well the old chronicler tells of the unhallowed love of the king, 
and the constancy of the noble lady, when she welcomed him in the castle that she 
had been bravely defending against her enemies ! “As soon as the lady knew of the 
king’s coming, she set open the gates, and came out so richly beseen, that every 
man marvelled of her beauty, and could not cease to regard her nobleness with her 
great beauty, and the gracious words and countenance she made. When she came 
to the king, she kneeled down to the earth, thanking him of his succours, and so 
led him into the castle, to make him cheer and honour, as she that could right doit. 
Every man regarded her marvellously ; the king himself could not withhold his 
regarding of her, for he thought that he never saw before so noble nor so fair a 
lady: he was stricken therewith to the heart, with a sparkle of fine love that 
endured long after ; he thought no lady in the world so worthy to be loved as she. 
Thus they entered into the castle hand-in-hand ; the lady led him first into the hall, 
and after into the chamber, nobly apparelled. The king regarded so the lady, that 
she was abashed. At last he went to a window to rest, and so fell into a great 
study. The lady went about to make cheer to the lords and knights that were 
there, and commanded to dress the hall for dinner. When she had all devised 
and commanded, then she came to the king with a merry cheer, who was then m a 
great study, and she said, ‘ Dear sir, why do ye study so for? Your grace not 
displeased, it appertaineth not to you so to do ; rather ye should make good cheer 
and be joyful, seeing you have chased away your enemies, who durst not abide you : 
let other men study for the remnant.’ Then the king said, ‘ Ah, dear lady, know 
for truth that since I entered into the castle there is a study come into my mind 
so that I cannot choose but to muse, nor I cannot tell what shall fall thereof: put 
it out of my heart I cannot.’ ‘ Ah, sir,’ quoth the lady, ‘ ye ought always to ma 'e 
good cheer to comfort therewith your people. God hath aided you so in your 
business, and hath given you so great graces, that ye be the most doubted (fearec) 
and honoured prince in all Christendom ; and if the King of Scots have done you 
any despite or damage, ye may well amend it when it shall please as ye have 
done divers times er (ere) this. Sir, leave your musing and come into the hall if it 
please you • your dinner is all ready.’ ‘Ah, fair lady,’quoth the king, ‘other thin gs.lieth 








398 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[OLD PLAY 

at my heart that ye know not of : but surely the sweet behaving, the perfect wisdom, 
the good grace, nobleness, and excellent beauty that I see in you hath ^o surprised 
my heart, that I cannot but love you, and without your love I am but dead.’ Then 
the lady said, * Ah ! right noble prince, for God’s sake mock nor tempt me not. 
I cannot believe that is true that ye say, or that so noble a prince as ye be would 
think to dishonour me, and my lord my husband, who is so valiant a knight, and 
hath done your grace so good service, and as yet lieth in prison for your quarrel. 
Certainly, sir ; ye should in this case have but a small praise, and nothing the 
better thereby. I had never, as yet, such a thought in my heart, nor, I trust in 
God, never shall have for no man living. If I had any such intention, your 
grace ought not only to blame me, but also to punish my body, yea, and by true 
justice to be dismembered.’ Herewith the lady departed from the king, and went 
into the hall to haste the dinner. When she returned again to the king, and 
brought some of his knights with her, and said, “ Sir, if it please you to come into 
the hall, your knights abideth for you to wash ; ye have been too long fasting.” 
Then the king went into the hall, and washed, and sat down among his lords, and 
the lady also. The king ate little ; he sat still musing, and, as he durst, he cast 
his eyes upon the lady. Of his sadness his knights had marvel, for he was not 
accustomed so to be ; some thought it was because the Scots were escaped from 
him. All that day the king tarried there, and wist not what to do : sometime he 
imagined that truth and honour defended him to set his heart in such a case, to 
dishonour such a lady and such a knight as her husband was, who had always well 
and truly served him ; on the other part, love so constrained him, that the power 
thereof surmounted honour and truth. Thus the king debated to himself all that 
day and all that night : in the morning he arose, and dislodged all his host, and 
drew after the Scots to chase them out of his realm. Then he took leave of the 
lady, saying, ‘ My dear lady, to God I commend you till I return again, requiring 
you to advise you otherwise than ye hare said to me.’ 1 Noble prince,’ quoth the 
lady, 1 God, the Father glorious, be your conduct, and put you out of all villain 
thoughts. Sir, I am, and ever shall be, ready to do you pure service, to your 
honour and to mine.’ Therewith the king departed all abashed.” 

If we carry on the legend to the belief that the king subdued his passions, and 
afterwards met the noble woman in all honour and courtesy, we may understand 
the motto of the garter—“ Evil be to him that evil thinks.”] 


This story has been dramatised, with considerable power, in an anonymous play “ Edward 
III.” which by some has been attributed to Shakspere. 

The Countess of Salisbury is besieged in the castle of Roxburgh, hut is speedily relieved 
from her besiegers by the arrival of Edward with his army. The king and the countess 
meet, and Edward becomes her guest. His position is a dangerous one, and he rushes into 
the danger. 

Cou. Sorry I am to see my liege so sad: 

What may thy subject do, to drive from thee 
This gloomy consort, sullen melancholy ? 

Edw. Ah, lady, I am blunt, and cannot straw 
The flowers of solace in a ground of shame :— 

Since I came hither, countess, I am wrong’d. 

Cou. Now, God forbid, that any in my house 
Should think my sovereign wrong ! Thrice gentle king, 

Acquaint me with your cause of discontent. 

Edw. How near then shall I be to remedy ? 







OLD PLAY.J 


EDWARD III. AND THE COUNTESS OF SALISBURY. 


399 


Cou. As near, my liege, as all my woman’s power 
Can pawn itself to buy thy remedy, 

Edw. If thou speak’st true, then have I my redress: 

Engage thy power to redeem my joys, 

And I am joyful, countess ; else, I die. 

Cou. I will, my liege. 

Edw. Swear, countess, that thou wilt. 

Cou. By heaven, I will. 

Edw. Then take thyself a little way aside ; 

And tell thyself a king doth dote on thee ; 

Say, that within thy power it doth lie 
To make him happy ; and that thou hast sworn 
To give me all the joy within thy power : 

Do this, and tell me when I shall be happy. 

Cou. All this is done, my thrice dread sovereign; 

That power of love, that I have power to give, 

Thou hast with all devout obedience ; 

Employ me how thou wilt in proof thereof. 

Edw. Thou hear’st me say that I do dote on thee. 

Cou. If on my beauty, take it if thou canst; 

Though little, I do prize it ten times less : 

If on my virtue, take it if thou canst 
For virtue’s store by giving doth augment 
Be it on what it will, that I can give, 

And then canst take away, inherit it. 

Edw. It is thy beauty that I would enjoy. 

Cou. 0, were it painted, I would wipe it 01 T, 

And dispossess myself, to give it thee : 

But, sovereign, it is solder’d to my life ; 

Take one, and both; for, like an humble shadow, 

It haunts the sunshine of my summer’s life. 

Edw. But thou mayst lend it me to sport withal. 

Cou. As easy may my intellectual soul 
Be lent away, and yet my body live, 

As lend my body, palace to my soul, 

Away from her, and yet retain my soul. 

My body is her bower, her court, her abbey, 

And she an angel, pure, divine, unspotted; 

If I should lend her house, my lord, to thee, 

I kill my poor soul, and my poor soul me.” 

The Earl of Warwick, father to the Countess of Salisbury, is required by Edward, upon his 
oath of duty, to go to his daughter, and command her to agree with his dishonourable pro¬ 
posals. The skill with which the father is made to deliver the message of the king, and to 
appear to recommend a compliance with his demands, but so at the same time as to maKe 
the guilty purpose doubly abhorrent, indicates no common power :— 

“ War. How shall I enter in this graceless errand ? 

I must not call her child ; for where’s the father 
That will, in such a suit, seduce his child ? 

Then, Wife of Salisbury,—shall I so begin 

Ho, he’s mv friend ; and where is found the friend 








400 


HALF-HOURS CE ENGLISH HISTORY. 


(old play 


That will do friendship such endamagement ? 
Neither my daughter, nor my dear friend’s wife, 

I am not Warwick, as thou think’st I am. 

But an attorney from the court of hell ; 

That thus have hous’d my spirit in his form, 

To do a message to thee from the king. 

The mighty king of England dotes on thee : 

He, that hath power to take away thy life, 

Hath power to take thine honour; then consent 
To pawn thine honour, rather than thy life : 

Honour is often lost, and got again ; 

But life, once gone, hath no recovery. 

The sun, that withers hay, doth nourish grass ; 

The king, that would distain thee, will advance thee. 
The poets write, that great Achilles’ spear 
Could heal the wound it made : the moral is, 

What mighty men misdo, they can amend. 

The lion doth become his bloody jaws, 

And grace his foragement, by being mild 
When vassal fear lies trembling at his feet. 

The king will in his glory hide thy shame ; 

And those, that gaze on him to find out thee, 

Will lose their eyesight, looking in the sun. 

What can one drop of poison harm the sea, 

Whose hugy vastness can digest the ill, 

And make it lose his operation ? 

The king’s great name will temper thy misdeeds 
And give the bitter potion of reproach 
A sugar’d sweet and most delicious taste : 

Besides, it is no harm to do the thing, 

Which without shame could not be left undone. 
Thus have I, in his majesty’s behalf, 

Apparel’d sin in virtuous sentences, 

And dwell upon thy answer in his suit. 

Cou. Unnatural besiege ! Woe me, unhappy. 

To have escap’d the danger of my foes, 

And to be ten times worse invir’d by friends 1 
Hath he no means to stain my honest blood, 

But to corrupt the author of my blood, 

To be his scandalous and vile solicitor 1 
No marvel, though the branches be infected, 

When poison hath encompassed the root: 

No marvel, though the leprous infant die, 

When the stern dam envenometh the dug. 

Why, then, give sin a passport to offend, 

And youth the dangerous rein of liberty : 

Blot out the strict forbidding of the law; 

And cancel every canon that prescribes 
A shame for shame, or penance for offence. 

No, let me die, if his too boist’rous will 
Will have it so, before I will consent 
To be an actor in his graceless lust. 







1 LD PLAY.] EDWARD III. AND THE COUNTESS OF SALISBURY. 401 

War . Why, now thou speak’st as I would have thee speak, 

And mark how I unsay my words again. 

An honourable grave is more esteem’d, 

Than the polluted closet of a king : 

The greater man, the greater is the thing, 

Be it good, or bad, that he shall undertake : 

An unreputed mote, flying in the sun, 

Presents a greater substance than it is : 

The freshest summer’s day doth soonest taint v 

The loathed carrion that it seems to kiss 
Deep are the blows made with a mighty axe: 

That sin doth ten times aggravate itself, 

That is committed in a holy place ; 

An evil deed, done by authority, 

Is sin and subornation : deck an ape 
In tissue, and the beauty of the robe 
Adds but the greater scorn unto the beast. 

A spacious field of reasons could I urge, 

Between his glory, daughter, and thy shame: 

That poison shows worst in a golden cup ; 

Dark night seems darker by the lightning flash ; 

Lilies, that fester, smell far worse than weeds ; 

And every glory that inclines to sin, 

The shame is treble by the opposite. 

So leave I with my blessing in thy bosom ; 

Which then convert to a most heavy curse, 

When thou convert’st from honour’s golden name 

To the black faction of bed-blotting shame ! Exit. 

Cou. I’ll follow thee ; And, when my mind turns so, 

My body sink my soul in endless woe ! Exit. 

Daring the tempest of Edward’s passion, the Prince of Wales arrives at the Ckstle of 
Roxburgh, and the conflict in the mind of the king is well imagined : 

Edw. I see the boy. 0, how his mother’s face, 

Moulded in his, corrects my stray’d desire, 

And rates my heart, and chides my thievish eye ; 

Who, being rich enough in seeing her, 

Yet seeks elsewhere: and basest theft is that 
Which cannot check itself on poverty.— 

Now, boy, what news ? 

Pri. I have assembled, my dear lord and father, 

The choicest buds of all our English blood, 

For our affairs in France ; and here we come, 

To take direction from your majesty. 

Edw. Still do I see in him delineate 
His mother’s visage ; those his eyes are hers, 

"Who, looking wistly on me, made me blush ; 

For faults against themselves give evidence : 

Lust is a fire ; and men, like lanthorns, show 
Light lust within themselves, even through themselves. 

Away, loose silks of wavering vanity \ 


D D 










402 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[OLD PLAT 




Shall the large limit of fair Brittany 
By me be overthrown 1 and shall I not 
Master this little mansion of myself ? 

Give me an armour of eternal steel ; 

I go to conquer kings : And shall I then 
Subdue myself, and be my enemy’s friend ? 

It must not be.—Come, boy, forward, advance ! 

Let’s with our colours sweep the air of France. 

Lod. My liege, the countess, with a smiling cheer, 

Desires access unto your majesty. 

[Advancing from the door and 'ichispering him. 

Edw. Why, there it goes ! that very smile of hers 
Hath ransom’d captive France ; and set the king, 

The dauphin, and the peers, at liberty.— 

Go. leave me, Ned, and revel with thy friends. \Exit Prince. 

The countess enters, and with the following scene suddenly terminates the ill starred | 
passion of the king 

Edw. Now, my soul’s playfellow ! art thou come, 

To speak the more than heavenly word of yea, 

To my objection in thy beauteous love ! 

Cou. My father on his blessing hath commanded— 

Edw. That thou shalt yield to me. 

Cou. Ah, dear my liege, your due. 

Edw. And that, my dearest love, can be no less 
Than right for right, and tender love for love. 

Cou. Than wrong for wrong, and endless hate for hate.—• 

But,—sith I see your majesty so bent, 

That my unwillingness, my husband’s love, 

Your high estate, nor no respect respected 
Can be my help, but that your mightiness 
Will overbear and awe these dear regards,— 

I bind my discontent to my content, 

And, what I would not, I’ll compel I will ; 

Provided that yourself remove those lets 
That stand between your highness’ love and mine. 

Edw. Name them, fair countess, and, by heaven, I will. 

Cou. It is their lives, that stand between our love, 

That I would have chok’d up, my sovereign. 

Edw. Whose lives, my lady ? 

Cou. My thrice loving liege, 

Your queen, and Salisbury my wedded husband ; 

Who living have that title in our love, 

That we cannot bestow but by their death. 

Edw. Thy opposition is beyond our law. 

Cou. So is your desire : If the law 
Can hinder you to execute the one, 

Let it forbid you to attempt the other : 

I cannot think you love me as you say, 

Unless you do make good what you have sworn. 

Edw. No more ; thy husband and the queen shall die. 

Fairer thou art by far than Hero was; 

u u 








OLD PLAY.] 


403 


EDWARD III. AND THE COUNTESS OP SALISBURY. 

Beardless Leander not so strong as I: 

He sworn an easy current for his love : 

But I will, through a helly spout of blood, 

Arrive that Sestos where my Hero lies. 

Cou. Nay, you’ll do more ; you’ll make the river too, 

With their heart-bloods that keep our love asunder, 

Of which my husband, and your wife, are twain. 

Edw. Thy beauty makes them guilty of their death, 

And gives in evidence, that they shall die ; 

Upon which verdict, I, their judge, condemn them. 

Cou. O perjur’d beauty ! more corrupted judge ! 

When, to the great star-chamber o’er our heads, 

The universal session calls to count 
This packing evil, we both shall tremble for it. 

Edw. What says my fair love; is she resolute ? 

Cou. Resolute to be dissolv’d ; and, therefore, this,— 

Keep but thy word, great king, and I am thine. 

Stand where thou dost, I’ll part a little from thee, 

And see how I will yield me to thy hands. 

[ Turning suddenly upon him and showing two daggers. 
Here by my side do hang my wedding knives: 

Take thou the one, and with it kill thy queen, 

And learn by me to find her where she lies; 

And with the other I’ll despatch my love, 

Which now lies fast asleep within my heart: 

When they are gone, then I’ll consent to love. 

Stir not, lascivious king, to hinder me ; 

My resolution is more nimbler far, 

Than thy prevention can be in my rescue. 

And, if thou stir, I strike ; therefore stand still, 

And hear the choice that I will put thee to : 

Either swear to leave thy most unholy suit, 

And never henceforth to solicit me ; 

Or else by heaven [kneeling], this sharp-pointed knife 
Shall stain the earth with that which thou would’st stain. 

My poor chaste blood. Swear, Edward, swear, 

Or I will strike, and die, before thee here, 

Edw. Even by that Power I swear, that gives me nov? 

The power to be ashamed of myself, 

I never mean to part my lips again 
In any word that tends to such a suit. 

Arise, true English lady ; whom our isle 
May better boast of, than e’er Roman might 
Of her, whose ransack’d treasury hath task’d 
The vain endeavour of so many pens : 

Arise ; and be my fault thy honour’s fame, 

Which after ages shall enrich thee with, 

I am awaked from this idle dream 





404 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HIST. PAR. 


112.—BERTRAND DU GUESCLJN. 

(Translated from the French in ‘Historical Parallels.') 

[In 1361 the prince of Wales had married Joanna, styled the Fair, the daughter 
of his great uncle the earl of Kent, who had been put to death in the beginning of 
the present reign. This lady had been first married to William de Montacute, earl 
of Salisbury, from whom she had been divorced ; and she had now been about three 
months the widow of sir Thomas Holland, who assumed in her right the title of 
earl of Kent, and was summoned to parliament as such. Soon after his marriage 
the prince of Wales was raised by his father to the new dignity of prince of Aqui¬ 
taine and Gascony (the two provinces or districts of Guienne) ; and in 1363 he 
took up his residence, and established a splendid court in that quality, at Bordeaux. 
Edward’s administration of his continental principality was very able and success¬ 
ful, till he unfortunately became involved in the contest carried on by Pedro, sur- 
named the Cruel, with his illegitimate brother Henry of Trastamare for the crown 
of Castile. Pedro having been driven from his throne by Henry, applied to the 
Black Prince for aid to expel the usurper. At this call Edward, forgetting every¬ 
thing except the martial feelings of the age and what he conceived to be the rights 
of legitimacy, marched into Spain, and defeated Henry at the battle of Najera, 
fought on the 3rd of April, 1367. He did not, however, attain even his immediate 
object by this success. Pedro had reigned little more than a year when he was 
again driven from his throne by Henry, by whom he was soon after murdered. 
Henry kept possession of the throne which he had thus obtained till his death, ten 
years after. Prince Edward, meanwhile, owing to Pedro’s misfortunes, having been 
disappointed of the money which that king had engaged to supply, found himself 
obliged to lay additional taxes upon his subjects of Guienne, to obtain the means 
of paying his troops. These imposts several of the Gascon lords refused to submit 
to, and appealed to the king of France as the lord paramount. Charles on this 
summoned Edward to appear before the parliament of Paris as his vassal; and on 
the refusal of the prince, immediately confiscated all the lands held by him and his 
father in France. A new war forthwith broke out between the two countries. For 
a time the wonted valour of prince Edward again shone forth ; but among the 
other fruits of his Spanish expedition was an illness caught by his exposure in that 
climate, which gradually undermined his constitution, and at length compelled him, 
in January, 1371, to return to England.] 


One day the prince of Wales was risen from dinner, and gone into a private 
chamber with his barons, who had been served with wine and spices. So they began 
to speak of many a bold deed of arms, of love-passages, of battles, and of prisons, 
and how St. Louis to save his life was made prisoner in Tunis, from whence he was 
ransomed for fine gold, paid down by weight. Until the prince, who spoke without 
caution, said, ‘ When a good knight well approved in battle is made prisoner in 
fair feat of arms, and has rendered himself, and sworn to abide prisoner, he should 
on no account depart without his master’s leave. And also one should not demand 
such portion of his substance, that he be unable to equip himself again.’ When 
the Sire de Lebret heard these words, he began to take heed, and said to him, 
‘ Noble Sire, be not angry with me if I relate what I have heard said of you in your 
absence.’ ‘ By my faith,’ said the prince, ‘ right little should I love follower of 
mine sitting at my table, if he heard said a word against my honour, and apprised 
me not of it.’ ‘ Sire,’ said he of Lebret, 1 men say that you hold in prison a knight 
whose name I well know, whom you dare not delyver.’ ‘ It is true,’ said Oliver do 




BERTRAND DU GUESCLIN. 


405 


HIST. PAR.] 


Ciisson, £ I have heard speak of it.’ Then the prince swore and boasted, ‘that he 
knew no knight in the world, but, if he were his prisoner, he would put him to a 
fair ransom, according to his ability.’ And Lebret said, ‘ How then do you forget 
Bertrand du Guesclin, that he cannot get away V And when the prince heard this, 
his colour changed ; and he was so tempted by pride, anger, and disdain, that lie 
commanded Bertrand to be brought before him ; with whom he wished to make 
terms, in spite of all who had spoken of the matter, and would fain not let him oe 
ransomed, unless they themselves should fix the amount. 

Then certain knights went and found Bertrand, who, to amuse himself and foiget 
his weariness, was talking with his chamberlain, Which knights saluted him. And 
Bertrand arose towards them, and showed a fair seeming, saying ‘that they were 
come in good time.’ Then he ordered the aforesaid chamberlain to bring wine. 
The knights answered ‘ that it was right fitting they should have much wine, good 
and strong ; for they brought him good, joyful, and pleasant news with good will.’ 
Then one of them who was wise and discreet said, ‘ that the prince sent for him 
to appear in his presence, and he thought that he would be ransomed by help of 
those friends he had at court, who were many.’ ‘ What say you V said Bertrand; 
< I have neither halfpenny nor penny, and owe more than ten thousand livres, that 
have been lent me, which debt has accrued in this city while I have been prisoner.’ 
One of them inquired of him, ‘How have you accounted for so much V ‘I will 
answer for that,’ said Bertrand ; ‘ I have eaten, drunk, given, and played at dice 
with it. A little money is soon spent. But if I be set free, I shall soon have 
paid it*: he saves his money, and has it in good keeping, who shall for my help 
lend me the keys of it.’ And an officer who heard him said, ‘ Sir, you are stout¬ 
hearted, it seems to you that every thing which you would have must happen. 
‘Bv my faith,’ said Bertrand, ‘you are right, for a dispirited man is nothing better 
than beaten and discomfited.’ And the rest said, ‘ that he was like one enchanter, 


for he was proof against every shock.” _ 

Then he was brought to the chamber where was the prince of Wales, and wuh. 
him John Chandos, a true and valiant knight. And had they chosen to believe 
him they would long before have disposed of the war : for he gave much good 
advice. And also there were Oliver de Ciisson and other knights, before whom 
came Bertrand, wearing a grey coat. And when the prince saw him lie con not 
keep from laughing, from the time he saw him. Then he said Well, Bertrand, 
how fare you ? ’ And Bertrand approached him, bowing a little, and said, teir 
when it shall please you, I may fare better : many a day have I heard the rats and 
mice, but the song of birds it is long since I heard * I shall hear them when it is 
your pleasure.’ ‘ Bertrand,’ said the prince, ‘ that shall be when you will; it will 
depend only on yourself, so that you will swear, and make true oath never to bear 
arms against me, nor these others, nor to assist Henry of Spam. So soon as you 
will swear this, we will fully set you free, and pay that you owe, and besides give 
ten thousand florins to equip you anew, if you consent to this ; else you sha no 
ctq » t si re » sa id Bertrand, ‘ my deliverance then will not come to pass ; tor beloie 
I do so, may I lie by the leg in prison while I live. God willing I will never be a 
reproach to my friends. For by Him who made the world, I will serve with my 
whole heart those whom I have served, and whose I have been from my ouse . 
These are the good king of France, the noble Dukes of Anjou, of Berry of Dui- 
gundy, and of Bourbon; whose I have been, as became me. But so please you, 


* This expression will remind the reader of a favourite saying of the “ Good Sir James” 
DoJta ^companion of Robert Bruce’s dangers, that “ It is better to bear the lar t s,„g 
than the mouse cheepmeaning that he would never shut h.mself up m a castle whtle he 

could keep the open field. 





400 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [HIST. PAR. 

suffer me to go. For you have held me too long in prison, wrongfully and without 
cause ; and I will tell you how I had gone from France, I and my people meaning 
to go against the Saracens. And so I had promised Hugh de Garvalay, intending 
to work out my salvation.’ 1 Why then went you not straight witnout stopping l 
said the prince. £ X will tell you,’ said Bertrand in a loud voice. ~SV& found Petei, 

_the curse of God confound him ! who had long since thrice falsely murdered his 

noble Queen, horn of the noble line cf Bourbon, and of the biood of my Loid, St. 
Louis, which lady was your cousin by the best blood in your body. Stiaightway 
then I stopped, to take vengeance for her, and to help Henry ; for well. I know, 
and surely I believe, that he is the right king and the true heir of Spain. And 
also to destroy, and put to an end, Jews and Saracens, of whom there are too many 
in these parts. Now through great pride you have come to Spain to the best of 
your ability, both through covetousness of gold and silver, and that you may have 
the throne after the death of Peter, who reigns wrongfully, by which journey yon 
have, in the first place, injured your own blood, and troubled me and my people : 
whence it has come to pass, that after you have so ruined your friends, and you and 
your people have been all famished, and suffered great pain and labour, Peter has 
deceived you by cheating and trickery, for he has not kept faith nor covenant with 
you, for which, by my faith, I thank him heartily.’ When Bertrand had related 
his reasons, the prince rose, and could not help saying that on his soul Bertrand 
was right, and the barons said that he had spoken truth. Then was there great 
joy stirring all round and about, and they said of Bertrand, one to another, £ See 
there a brave Breton.’ But the prince called, and said to him, £ You shall not 
escape me without paying a good ransom ; and yet it vexes me that you obtain 
such favour. But men say that I keep you prisoner because I fear you ; and to 
the end that every one may cease to suspect this, and may know that I neither 
fear nor care for you, I will deliver you on payment of sufficient ransom.’ ‘ Sir,’ 
said Bertrand, £ I am a poor knight of little name, and not so born as that I should 
find help in plenty. And besides, my estate is mortgaged for purchase of war- 
horses, and also I owe in this town full ten thousand florins. Be moderate, there¬ 
fore, and deliver me.’ £ Where will you go, fair sir?’ said the prince. ‘Sir,’ said 
Bertrand, £ I will go where I may regain my loss, and prore I say not.’ £ Consider 
then,’ said the prince, £ what ransom you will give me : for what you will shall be 
enough for me.’ £ Sir,’ said Bertrand, £ I trust you will not stoop to retract your 
meaning. And since you are content to refer it to my pleasure, I ought not to 
value myself too low. So I will give and engage for my freedom one hundred 
thousand double golden florins.’ And when the prince heard him his colour 
changed, and he looked round at his knights, saying, ‘ Does he mean to make game 
of me that he offers such a sum ? for I would gladly quit him for the quarter.’ 
‘ Bertrand,’ said he, c neither can you pay it, nor do I wish such a sum ; so con¬ 
sider again.’ £ Sire,’ said Bertrand, £ since you will not so much, I place myself 
at sixty thousand double florins ; you shall not have less, sobeit you will discharge 
me.’ ‘ Well,’ said the prince, £ I agree to it.’ Then said Bertrand loudly, £ sir, 
prince Henry may well and truly vaunt that he will die king of Spain, cost him 
what it may, and he will lend me one half my ransom, and the king of France the 
other; and if I can neither go nor send to these two, I would get all the spin- 
stresses in France to spin it rather than that I should remain longer in your 
hands.’* And when the prince had heard him he thus said : £ What sort of man 
is this ? He startles at nothing, either in act or thought, no more than if he had 

* Si le gagneroie aincois a filler toutes les filleresses qui en France sont, que ce que jo 
demourasse plus entre vos mains. 




HIST. PAR.] 


BERTRAND DU GUESCLIN. 


407 


all the gold which is in the world. Ho has set himself at sixty thousand double 
florins, and I would willingly have quitted him for ten thousand And all the 
barons also marvelled greatly. ‘ Am I then at liberty V said the gal ant Bertrand. 
And Chandos asked him whence the money should come Sir said lie, I iave 
good friends, as I shall find, I am certain.’ ‘ By my faith said Chandos, am 
much rejoiced therefore, and if you have need of my help, thus much I say I wi 
lend you ten thousand.’ ‘Sir,’ said Bertrand, ‘ I thank you. But before I seek 
anything of you I will try the people of my own country. 


113—THE INSURRECTION OF THE PEASANTS. 


Hume. 


Edward had left his grandson involved in many dangerous wars The preten¬ 
sions of the duke of Lancaster to the crown of Castile, made that kingdom still 
persevere in hostilities against England. Scotland, whose throne was now filled by 
Robert Stuart, nephew to David Bruce, and the first prince of that family main¬ 
tained such close connections with France, that war with one crown almost inevi¬ 
tably produced hostilities with the other. The French monarch whose prudent 
conduct had acquired him the surname of wise, as he had already baffled all the 
experience and valour of the two Edwards, was likely to prove a dangerous enemy 
to’aminor king ; but his genius, which was not naturally him no , 

at present to give any disturbance to bis neighbours: and he laboured besides, 
under many difficulties^ home, which it was ■necessary for “»mountbrfore 
he could think of making conquests in a foreign country. England was master of 
Calais Bordeaux, and Bayonne ; had lately acquired possession of Cherbourg from 
the cessffln of the king of Navarre, and of Brest from that of the duke of Brittany ; 

'could remove &om these important posts, he died j ^ ^r of Ins 

afre and left his kingdom to a minor son, who bore the name of Uia es . 

Meanwhile the war with France was carried on in 

, v ordpmriqp of oreat lustre or renown. Sir Hugh Ualveriy, governor 

of CalX'making an inroad into Picardy with a detachment of the garrison, set fire 
to Boulogne. The duke of Lancaster conducted an army into Brittany, but letur e 
? . vi l n rvorform anything memorable. In a subsequent }ear, t e 

. body of 20 oo w** ** woo 

duke of Gloucester mareneu urn tQ enter into the heart of France, 

infantry, and scrupled no , w Pi rnr dv'champaigne the Brie, the Beauffe, 

and to continue his ravages Champagne, 

MESStfT* A. £»£ 

that'no superiority r of ^mmbCTS S coidd r temptgQo^fter'the'arrival of Ifflese 

proved in the issue unsuccessful, and made attending a 

The expences of these b treasury and obliged the parliament, besides 

minority, much exhausted the E g . a new and unusual tax of three 

seas vtsstffu z ... - * 







408 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HUME 


1 


cumstanccs. All history abounds with examples where the great tyrannise over 
the meaner sort; but here the lowest populace rose against their rulers, committed 
the most cruel ravages upon them, and took vengeance for all former oppressions. 

The faint dawn of the arts and of good government in that age, had excited the 
minds of the populace in different states of Europe, to wish for a better condition, 
and to murmur against those chains which the laws, enacted by the haughty nobi¬ 
lity and gentry, had so long imposed upon them. The commotions of the people 
in Flanders, the mutiny of the peasants in France, were the natural effects of this 
growing spirit of independence ; and the report of these events being brought in 
England, where personal slavery, as we learn from Froissart, was more general than 
in any other country in Europe, had prepared the minds of the multitude for an 
insurrection. One John Wall also, a seditious preacher, -who affected low popularity, 
went about the country, and inculcated on his audience the principles of the first 
origin of mankind from one common stock, their equal right to liberty and to all 
the goods of nature, the tyranny of artificial distinctions, and the abuses which had 
arisen from the degradation of the more considerable part of the species, and the 
aggrandisement of a few insolent rulers. These doctrines, so agreeable to the 
populace, aud so conformable to the ideas of primitive equality which are engraven 
in the hearts of all men, were greedily received by the multitude, and scattered the 
sparks of that sedition, which the present tax roused into a conflagration. 

The imposition of three groats a head had been farmed out to tax-gatherers in 
each county, who levied the money on the people with rigour ; and the clause, of 
making the rich ease their poorer neighbours of some share of the burden, being 
so vague and undeterminate, had, doubtless, occasioned many partialities, and made 
the people more sensible of the unequal lot which fortune had assigned them in 
the distribution of her favours. The first disorder was raised by a blacksmith in 
a village of Essex. The tax-gatherers came to this man’s shop while he was at 
work ; and they demanded payment for his daughter, whom he asserted to be 
below the age assigned by the statute. One of these fellows offered to produce a 
very indecent proof to the contrary, and at the same time laid hold of the maid, 
which the father resenting, immediately knocked out the ruffian’s brains with his 
hammer. The bystanders applauded the action, and exclaimed, that it was full 
time for the people to take vengeance on their tyrants, and to vindicate their native 
liberty. They immediately flew to arms ; the whole neighbourhood joined in the 
sedition. The flame spread in an instant over the county ; it soon propagated 
itself into that of Kent, of Hertford, Surrey, Sussex, Suffolk, Norfolk, Cambridge, 
and Lincoln. Before the government had the least warning of the danger, the 
disorder had grown beyond control or opposition ; the populace had shaken off all 
regard to their former masters, and being headed by the most audacious and criminal 
of their associates, who assumed the feigned names of Wat Tyler, Jack Straw, Hob 
Carter, and John Miller, by which they were fond of denoting their mean origin, 
they committed everywhere the most outrageous violence on such of the gentry or 
nobility who had the misfortune to fall into their hands. 

The mutinous populace, amounting to a hundred thousand men, assembled on 
Blackheath under their leaders Tyler and Straw ; and as the princess of Wales, the 
king’s mother, returning from a pilgrimage to Canterbury, passed through the midst 
of them, they insulted her attendants, and some of the most insolent among them, 
to show their purpose of levelling all mankind, forced kisses from her ; but they 
allowed her to continue her journey, without attempting any farther injury. They 
sent a message to the king, who had taken shelter in the Tower, and they desired 
a conference with him. Richard sailed down the river in a barge for that purpose ; 
but on his approaching the shore, he saw such symptoms of tumult and insolence 










THE INSURRECTION OF THE PEASANTS. 


409 


EUA1E.] 


that he put back, and returned to that fortress. The seditious peasants, meanwhile, 
favoured by the populace of London, had broken into the city, had burned the 
duke of Lancaster’s palace of the Savoy, cut off the heads of all the gentlemen 
whom they laid hold of, expressed a particular animosity against the lawyers and 
attorneys, and pillaged the warehouses of the rich merchants. A great body of 
them quartered themselves at Mile-end ; and the king, finding no defence in the 
Tower, which was weakly garrisoned, and ill supplied with provisions, was obliged 
to go out to them, and ask their demands. They required a general pardon, the 
abolition of slavery, freedom of commerce in market-towns without tpll or impbst, 
and a fixed rent on lands, instead of the services due by villeinage. These requests, 
which, though extremely reasonable in themselves, the nation was not sufficiently 
prepared to receive, and which it was dangerous to have extorted by violence, were 
however complied with ; charters to that purpose were granted them, and this body 
immediately dispersed, and returned to their several homes. 

During this transaction, another body of the rebels had broken into the Tower - 
had murdered Simon Sudbury, the primate and chancellor, with Sir Robert Hales, 
the treasurer, and some other persons of distinction ; and continued their ravages 
in the city. The king, passing along Smithfield, very slenderly guarded, met with 
Wat Tyler, at the head of these rioters, and entered into a conference with him. 
Tyler, having ordered his companions to retire, till he should give them a signal, 
after which they were to murder all the company except the king himself, whom 
they were to detain prisoner, feared not to come into the midst of the royal retinue. 
He there behaved himself in such a manner, that Walworth, the mayor of London, 
not able to bear his insolence, drew his sword, and struck him so violent a blow as 
brought him to the ground, where he was instantly dispatched by others of the 
king’s attendants. The mutineers, seeing their leader fall, prepared themselves for 
revenge ; and the whole company, with the king himself, had undoubtedly perished 
on the spot, had it not been for an extraordinary presence of mind which Richard 
discovered on the occasion. He ordered his company to stop ; he advanced alone 
towards the enraged multitude ; and accosting them with an affable and intrepid 
countenance, he asked them, “ What is the meaning of this disorder, my good 
people ? Are ye angry that ye have lost your leader ? I am your king : I will be 
your leader.” The populace, overawed by his presence, implicitly followed him. 
He led them into the fields to prevent any disorder which might have arisen from 
their continuing in the city. Being there joined by Sir Robert Knolles, and a 
body of well-armed veteran soldiers, who had been secretly drawn together, he 
strictly prohibited that officer from falling on the rioters, and committing an undis¬ 
tinguished slaughter upon them ; and he peaceably dismissed them with the same 
charters which had been granted to their fellows. Soon after, the nobility and 
t gentry, hearing of the king’s danger, in which they were all involved, flocked to 
London with their adherents and retainers, and Richard took the field at the head 
of an army 40,000 strong. It then behoved all the rebels to submit. The charters 
of enfranchisement and pardon were revoked by parliament ; the people were 
reduced to the same slavish condition as before, and several of the ringleaders were 
severely punished for the late disorders. Some were even executed without process 
or form of law. It was pretended that the intentions of the mutineers had been 
to seize the king’s person, to carry him through England at their head, to murder 
all the nobility, gentry, and lawyers, and even all the bishops and priests, except 
the mendicant friars ; to dispatch afterwards the king himself; and having thus 
reduced all to a level, to order the kingdom at their pleasure. It is not impossible 
but many of them, in the delirium of their first success, might have formed such 
projects ; but of all the evils incident to human society, the insurrections of the 







HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


410 


[HUM'S. 


populace, when not raised and supported by persons of higher quality, are the least 
to be dreaded. The mischiefs consequent to an abolition of all rank and distinction 
become so great, that they are immediately felt, and soon bring affairs back to their 
former order and arrangement. 


114. —THE BANISHMENT OF BOLINGfBROKE AND MOWBRAY. 

Shakspere. 


Scene — Coventry. 

Flourish of trumpets. Enter King Richard , who takes his scat on his throne ; Gaunt, 
and several Noblemen , who take their places. A trumpet is sounded , and answered 
by another trumpet within. Then enter Norfolk , in armour , preceded by a Herald. 

K Rich. Marshal, demand of yonder champion 
The cause of his arrival here in arms : 

Ask him his name ; and orderly proceed 
To swear him in the justice of his cause. 

Mar. In God’s name and the king’s, say who thou art, 

And why thou com’st thus knightly clad in arms : 

Against what man thou com’st, and what’s thy quarrel: 

Speak truly, on thy knighthood, and thine oath ; 

As so defend thee heaven, and thy valour ! 

Nor. My name is Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk; 

Who hither come engaged by my oath, 

(Which heaven defend a knight should violate !) 

Both to defend my loyalty and truth 
To God, my king, and his succeeding issue, 

Against the duke of Hereford that appeals me ; 

And. by the grace of God, and this mine arm, 

To prove him, in defending of myself, 

A traitor to my God, my king, and me : 

And, as I truly fight, defend me heaven ! 

[He takes his seat. 


Trumpet sounds. Enter Bolingbroke , in armour, preceded by a Herald. 

K Rich. Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms, 

Both who he is, and why he cometh hither 
Thus plated in habiliments of war; 

And formally according to our law 
Depose him in the justice of his cause. 

Mar. What is thy name 1 and wherefore com’st thou hither, 
Before king Richard, in his royal lists ? 

Against whom comest thou ? and what’s thy quarrel ? 

Speak ‘like a true knight, so defend thee heaven ! 

Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, 

Am I; who ready here do stand in arms, 

To prove, by heaven’s grace, and my body’s valour, 

In lists, on Thomas Mowbray duke of Norfolk, 

That he’s a traitor, foul and dangerous, 

To God of heaven, king Richard, and to me ; 

And, as I truly fight, defend me heaven 






8HAKSPERE.] 


THE BANISHMENT OF BOLING BROKE AND MOWBRAY. 


411 


Mar. On pain of death,-no person be so bold, 

Or daring-hardy, as to touch the lists, 

Except the marshal, and such officers 
Appointed to direct these fair designs. 

Boling. Lord marshal, let me hiss my sovereign’s hand 
And bow my knee before his majesty : 

For Mowbray and myself are like two men 
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage ; 

Then let us take a ceremonious leave, v 

And loving farewell, of our several friends. 

Mar. The appellant in all duty greets your highness, 

And craves to kiss your hand, and take his leave. 

K. Rich. We will descend, and fold him in our arms. 

Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right, 

So be thy fortune in this royal fight ! 

Farewell, my blood ; which if to-day thou shed, 

Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead. 

Boling. 0, let no noble eye profane a tear 
For me, if I be gor’d with Mowbray’s spear ; 

As confident as is the falcon’s flight 

Against a bird do I with Mowbray fight.- 

My loving lord, [to Lord Marshal ] I take my leave of you ; 

Of you, my noble cousin, lord Aumerle :— 

Not sick, although I have to do with death ; 

But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath. 

Lo, as at English feasts, so I regret 

The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet: 

O thou, the earthly author of my blood,— [To Gaunt. 

Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, 

Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up 
To reach at victory above my head,— 

And proof unto mine armour with thy prayers ; 

And with thy blessings steel my lance’s point, 

That it may enter Mowbray’s waxen coat, 

And furnish new the name of John of Gaunt, 

Even in the lusty ’haviour of his son. 

Gaunt. Heaven in thy good cause make thee prosperous ! 

Be swift like lightning in the execution ; 

And let thy blows, doubly redoubled, 

Fall like amazing thunder on the casque 
Of thy adverse pernicious enemy : 

Bouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live. 

Boling. Mine innocency, and saint George to thrive. 

[He takes his seat. 

Nor. [Rising.] However heaven, or fortune, cast my lot, 

There lives, or dies, true to king Bichard’s throne, 

A loyal, just, and upright gentleman : 

Never did captive with a freer heart 
Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace 
His golden uncontroll’d enfranchisement, 

More than my dancing soul doth celebrate 
This feast of battle with mine adversary. 







HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSFERE. 


Most mighty liege, and my companion peers, 

Take from my mouth the wish of happy years 
As gentle and as jocund, as to jest, 

Go I to fight ; Truth hath a quiet breast. 

K. Rich. Farewell, my lord ; securely I espy 
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye. 

Order the trial, marshal, and begin. 

[The King and the Lords return to their seats. 
Mar. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, 

-Receive thy lance ; and God defend thy right! 

Boling. [Rising.] Strong as a tower in hope, I cry—amen. 

Mar. Go bear this lance [to an Officer] to Thomas, duke of Norfolk. 

1 Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, 

Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself, 

On pain to be found false and recreant, 

To prove the duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray, 

A traitor to his God, his king, and him, 

And dares him to set forward to the fight. 

2 Her. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, duke of Norfolk, 

On pain to be found false and recreant, 

Both to defend himself, and to approve 
Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, 

To God, his sovereign, and to him, disloyal ; 

Courageously, and with a free desire, 

Attending but the signal to begin. 

Mar. Sound, trumpets ; and set forward, combatants. 

[A charge sounded. 

Stay, the king hath thrown his warder down. 

K. Rich. Let them lay by their helmets and their spears, 

And both, return back to their chairs again ; 

Withdraw with us ; and let the trumpets sound, 

While we return these dukes what we decree.— A long flourish. 

Draw near, [To the Combatants. 

And list, what with our council we have done. 

For that our kingdom’s earth should not be soil'd 
With that dear blood which it hath fostered ; 

And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect 

Of civil wounds plough’d up with neighbours’ swords ; 

[And for we think the eagle-winged pride 
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, 

With rival-hating envy, set on you 

To wake our peace, which in our country’s cradle 

Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep ;] 

Which so rous’d up with boisterous untun’d drums, 

With harsh resounding trumpets’ dreadful bray, 

And grating shock of wrathful iron arms, 

Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace, 

And make us wade even in our kindred’s blood ;—* 

Therefore, we banish you our territories : 

Yon, cousin Hereford, upon pain of death, 

Till twice five summers have enrich’d our fields. 




SHAKSPERE.] THE BANISHMENT OP BOLINGBROKE AND MOWBRAY. 4l>3 

Shall not regreet our fair dominions, 

But tread the stranger paths of banishment. 

Boling. Your will be done : This must my comfort be, 

That sun that warms you here, shall shine on me ; 

And those his golden beams, to you here lent, 

Shall point on me, and gild my banishment. 

K. Rich. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom, 

Which I with some unwillingness pronounce : 

The sly slow hours shall not determinate v 

The dateless limit of thy dear exile ;— 

The hopeless word of, never to return, 

Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life. 

Nor. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege, 

And all unlook’d for from your highness’ mouth ; 

A dearer merit, not so deep a maim 
As to be cast forth in the common air, 

Have I deserved at your highness’ hands. 

The language I have learn’d these forty years, 

My native English, now I must forego : 

And now my tongue’s use is to me no more 
Than an unstringed viol, or a harp ; 

Or like a cunning instrument cas’d up, 

Or, being open, put into his hands 
That knows no touch to tune the harmony. 

Within my mouth you have engaol’d my tongue, 

Doubly portcullis’d with my teeth and lips ; 

And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance 
Is made my gaoler to attend on me. 

I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, 

Too far in years to be a pupil now; 

What is thy sentence, then, but speechless death, 

Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath ? 

K. Rich. It boots thee not to be compassionate; 

After our sentence plaining comes too late. 

Nor. Then thus I turn me from my country’s light, 

To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. [Retiring 

K. Rich. Return again, and take an oath with thee. 

Lay on our royal sword your banish’d hands ; 

Swear by the duty that you owe to heaven, 

(Our part therein we banish with yourselves,) 

To keep the oath that we administer 

You never shall (so help you truth and heaven !) 

Embrace each other’s love in banishment; 

Nor ever look upon each other’s face ; 

Nor ever write, regreet, or reconcile 

This lowering tempest of your home-bred hate ; 

Nor ever by advised purpose meet 

To plot, contrive, or complot any ill 

’Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land. 

Boling. I swear. 

Nor. And I, to keep all this. 

Boling. Norfolk—so far as to mine enemy ; 








414 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERK, 


By this time, had the king permitted us, 

One of our souls had wander’d in the air. 

Banish’d this frail sepulchre of our flesh, 

As now our flesh is banish’d from this land ; 

Confess thy treasons ere thou fly this realm ; 

Since thou hast far to go, bear not along 
The clogging burthen of a guilty soul. 

Nor. No, Bolingbroke ; if ever I were traitor 
My name be blotted from the book of life, 

And I from heaven banish’d as from hence ! 

But what thou art, heaven, thou, and I do know ; 

And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue. 

Farewell, my liege :—Now no way can I stray ; 

Save back to England • all the world’s my way. 

K. Rich. Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes 
I see thy grieved heart ; thy sad aspect 
Hath from the number of his banish’d years 
Pluck d four away :—Six frozen winters spent, 

Return [to Boling.'] with welcome home from banishment. 

Boling. How long a time lies in one little word ! 

Four lagging winters, and four wanton springs 
End in a word : Such is the breath of kings. & 

Gaunt. I thank my liege, that, in regard of me, 

He shoitens four years of my son’s exile j 
But little vantage shall I reap thereby; 

For ere the six years that he hath to spend 

Can change their moons, and bring their times about 

My oil-dried lamp, and time-bewasted light, 

Shall be extinct with age and endless night ; 

My inch of taper will be burnt and done, 

And blindfold death not let me see my son. 

A. Rich. Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live. 
Gaunt. But not a minute, king, that thou canst give • 
Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow, 

And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow : 

Thou canst help time to furrow me with age, 

But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage ; 

Thy word is current with him for my death : 

But, dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath. 

Rlcfl ' Thy SOn is banish’d upon good advice 
Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave ; 

Why at our justice seem’st thou then to lower ? 

Gaunt. Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour. 
You urg d me as a judge; but I had rather 
You would have bid me argue like a father 
[0, had it been a stranger, not my child 
To smooth his fault I should have been more mild ’ 

A partial slander sought I to avoid 

And in the sentence my own life destroy’d.] 

Alas, I look’d when some of you should say, 

I was too strict, to make mine own away ; 


[Exit. 


SHAKSFERE.] THE BANISHMENT OF BOLINGBROKE AND MOWBRAY. 415 

But you gave leave to mine unwilling tongue, 

Against my will, to do myself this wrong. 

K. Rich. Cousin, farewell:—and, uncle, bid him so ; 

Six years we banish him, and he shall go. 

[Flourish. Exeunt K. Richard and Train. 
Aum. Cousin, farewell : what presence must not know, 

From where you do remain, let paper show. 

Mar. My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride 
As far as land will let me by your side. v 

Gaunt. 0, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy. words, 

That thou return’st no greeting to thy friends 1 
Boling. I have too few to take my leave of you, 

When the tongue’s office should be prodigal 
To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart. 

Gaunt. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time. 

Boling. Joy absent, grief is present for that time. 

Gaunt. What is six winters ? they are quickly gone. 

Boling. To men in joy : but grief makes one hour ten. 

Gaunt. Call it a travel that thou tak’st for pleasure. 

Boling. My heart will sigh when I miscall it so, 

Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage. 

Gaunt. The sullen passage of thy weary steps 
Esteem a foil, wherein thou art to set 
The precious jewel of thy home-return. 

[Boling. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make 
Will but remember me, what a deal of world 
I wander from the jewels that I love. 

Must I not serve a* long apprenticehood 
To foreign passages ; and in the end, 

Having my freedom, boast of nothing else 
But that I was a journeyman to grief ? 

Gaunt. All places that the eye of heaven visits 
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens : 

Teach thy necessity to reason thus ; 

There is no virtue like necessity. 

Think not, the king did banish thee ; 

But thou the king : Woe doth the heavier sit, 

Where it perceives it is but faintly borne. 

Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour, 

And not, the king exil’d thee : or suppose, 

Devouring pestilence hangs in our air, 

And' thou art flying to a fresher clime. 

Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it 

To lie that way thou go’st, not whence thou com’st. 

Suppose the singing birds, musicians ; 

The grass whereon thou tread’st, the presence strew’d ; 

The flowers, fair ladies ; and thy steps, no more 
Than a delightful measure or a dance : 

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite 

The man that mocks at it, and sets it light.] , 

Boling. 0, who can hold a fire in his hand, 

By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ? 




HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


(SHAKSPERE. 


41*> 


Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite, 

By bare imagination of a feast 1 
Or wallow naked in December snow, 

By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat ? 

O, no ! the apprehension of the good 
Gives but the greater feeling to the worse : 

Fell sorrow’s tooth doth never rankle more, 

Than when it bites but lanceth not the sore. 

Gaunt. Come, come, my son, I’ll bring thee on thy way : 

Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stray. 

Boling. Then, England’s ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu , 

My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet ! 

Where’er I wander, boast of this I can, 

Though banish’d, yet a true-born Englishman. [Exit. 


13 5.—THE RETURN OF BOLINGBROKE. 
Scene—The Coast of Wales. A Castle in View. 


Shakspers* 


Enter King Richard , Bishop of Carlisle , Aumerle , and Soldiers. 

K. Rich. Barkloughly castle call you this at hand ? 

Aum. Yea, my lord. How brooks your grace the air, 

After your late tossing on the breaking seas 1 

K. Rich. Needs must I like it well ; I weep for joy, 

To stand upon my kingdom once again. 

Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand, 

Though rebels wound thee with their horses’ hoofs : 

As a long-parted mother with her child 

Plays fondly with her tears and smiles, in meeting ; 

So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth, 

And do thee favour with my royal hands. 

Feed not thy sovereign’s foe, my gentle ehrth, 

Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense : 

But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom, 

And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way ; 

Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet 
Which with usurping steps do trample thee. 

Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies: 

And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower, 

Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder, 

Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch 
Throw death upon thy sovereign’s enemies. 

Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords ; 

This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones 
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king 
Shall falter under foul rebellion’s arms. 

Bishop. Fear not, my lord ; that Power that made you king 
Hath power to keep you king, in spite of all. 

[The means that heaven yields must be embrac’d, 

And not neglected ; else, if heaven would, 



THE RETURN OF BOLINGBROKE. 


417 


SHAKSPERE.] 

And we will not, heaven’s offer we refuse: 

The proffer’d means of succour and redress.] 

Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss ; 
Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security, 

Grows strong and great, in substance, and in friends. 

K. Rich. Discomfortable cousin ! know’st thou not, 

That, when the searching eye of heaven is hid 
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world, 

Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen, 

In murthers, and in outrage, bloody here ; 

But when, from under this terrestrial ball, 

He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines, 

And darts his light through every guilty hole, 

Then murthers, treasons, and detested sins, 

The cloak of night being pluck’d from off their backs, 

Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves ? 

So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,— 

Who all this while hath revell’d in the night, 

Whilst we were wand’ring with the antipodes,— 

Shall see-us rising in our throne the east, 

His treasons will sit blushing in his face, 

Not able to endure the sight of day, 

But, self-affrighted, tremble at his sin. 

Not all the water in the rough rude sea 
Can wash the balm from an anointed king: 

The breath of worldly men cannot depose 
The deputy elected by the Lord: 

For every man that Bolingbroke hath press’d, 

To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown, 

Heaven for his Bichard hath in heavenly pay 
A glorious angel; then, if angels fight, 

Weak men must fall; for heaven still guards the right. 

Enter Salisbury. 

Welcome, my lord ; How far off lies your power ? 

Sal. Nor near, nor farther off, my gracious lord, 

Than this weak arm : Discomfort guides my tongue, 

And bids me speak of nothing but despair. 

One day too late, I fear, my noble lord, 

Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth: 

0, call back yesterday, bid time return, 

And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men : 
To-day, to-day, unhappy day, too late, 

O’erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state 
For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead, 

Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers’d, and fled. 

Aum. Comfort, my liege : why looks your grace so pale ? 
K. Rich. But now, the blood of twenty thousand men 
Did triumph in my face, and they are fled ; 

And, till so much blood thither come again, 

Have I not reason to look pale and dead 1 
All souls that will be safe fly from my side ,* 


E E 




41S 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE. 


For time hath set a blot upon my pride.- 

Aum. Comfort, my liege, remember who you are. 

K. Rich. I had forgot myself: Am I not king 1 
Awake thou sluggard majesty ! thou sleepest. 

Is not the king’s name forty thousand names ? 

Arm, arm, my name ! a puny subject strikes 
At thy great glory.—Look not to the ground, 

Ye favourites of a king. Are we not high ? 

High be our thoughts ; I know, my uncle York 

Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here ? 

Enter Scroop. 

Scroop. More health and happiness betide my liege, 

Than can my care-tun’d tongue deliver him. 

K. Rich. Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar’d ; 

The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold. 

Say, is my kingdom lost ? why, ’t was my care ; 

And what loss is it to be rid of care 1 
Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we ? 

Greater he shall not be ; if he serve God, 

We ’ll serve him too, and be his fellow so- 
Revolt our subjects ? that we cannot mend ; 

They break their faith to God, as well as us : 

Cry, woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay ; 

The worst is death, and death will have his day. 

Scroop. Glad am I that your highness is so arm’d 
To bear the tidings of calamity. 

Like an unseasonable stormy day, 

Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores, 

As if the world were all dissolv’d tc tears ; 

So high above his limits swells the rage 

Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land 

With hard bright steel, and hearts harder than steel. 

White beards have arm’d their thin and hairless scalps 
Against thy majesty ; and boys, with women’s voices, 

Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints 
In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown ; 

Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows 
Of double-fatal yew against thy state ; 

Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills 
Against thy seat : both young and old rebel, 

And all goes worse than I have power to tell. 

K. Rich. Too well, too well, thou tell’st a tale so ill. 

Where is the earl of Wiltshire ? where is Bagot ? 

What is become of Bushy ? where is Green 1 
That they have let the dangerous enemy 
Measure our confines with such peaceful steps ? 

If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it. 

I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke. 

Scroop. Peace have they made with him, indeed, my lord. 

K. Rich. 0 villains, vipers, damn’d without redemption! 
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man 1 




THE RETURN OF BOLINGBROKE. 


419 


8HAKBPERE.] 

Snakes, in my heart-blood warm’d, that sting my heart! 
Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas ! 

Would they make peace 1 terrible hell make war 
Upon their spotted souls for this offence ! 

Scroop. Sweet love, I see, changing his property, 

Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate : 

Again uncurse their souls : their peace is made 
With heads, and not with hands : those whom you curse 
Have felt the worst of death’s destroying wound, 

And lie full low, grav’d in the hollow ground. 

Aum. Is Bushy, Green, and the earl of Wiltshire dead ? 
Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads. 

Aum. Where is the duke my father with his power ? 

K. Rich. No matter where. Of comfort no man speak ; 
Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs ; 

Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes 
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. 

Let *s choose executors, and talk of wills : 

And yet not so,—for what can we bequeath, 

Save our deposed bodies to the ground 
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke’s, 

And nothing can we call our own but death ; 

And that small model of the barren earth, 

Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. 

For heaven’s sake, let us sit upon the ground, 

And tell sad stories of the death of kings : 

How some have been depos’d, some slain in war, 

Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d : 

Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping kill’d ; 

All murther’d .—For within the hollow crown 
That rounds the mortal temples of a king, 

Keeps Death his court; and there the antic sits, 

Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp,— 

Allowing him a breath, a little scene 
To monarchize, be fear’d, and kill with looks ; 

Infusing him with self and vain conceit,— 

As if this flesh which walls about our life, 

Were brass impregnable,—and, humour’d thus, 

Comes at the last, and with a little pin 

Bores through his castle walls, and—farewell king ! 

Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood 
With solemn reverence ; throw away respect, 

Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty, 

For you have but mistook me all this while : 

I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief, 

Need friends :—Subjected thus, # 

How can you say to me—I am a king ? 

Car. My lord, wise men ne’er wail their present woes, 
But presently prevent the ways to wail. 

To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, 

Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe, 

| And so your follies fight against yourself.] 








420 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 

Fear, and be slain ; no worse can come, to fight: 

And fight and die, is death destroying death ; 

Where fearing dying pays death servile breath. 

Aum. My father hath a power, inquire of him ; 

And learn to make a body of a limb. 

K. Rich. Thou chid’st me well:—Proud Bolingbroke, 
To change blows with thee for our day of doom. 

This ague-fit of fear is over-blown 
An easy task it is to win our own. 

Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power ? 

Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour. 

Scroop. Men judge by the complexion of the sky 
The state and inclination of the day : 

So may you by my dull and heavy eye ; 

My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say. 

I play the torturer, by small and small, 

To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken :— 
Your uncle York is join’d with Bolingbroke ; 

And all your northern castles yielded up, 

And all your southern gentlemen in arms 
Upon his faction. 

K. Rich. Thou hast said enough.— 

Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth 
Of that sweet way I was in to despair ! 

What say you now 1 What comfort have we now ? 

By heaven, I’ll hate him everlastingly 
That bids me be of comfort any more. 

Go to Flint castle ; there I’ll pine away ; 

A king, woe’s slave, shall kingly woe obey 
That power I have, discharge ; and let them go 
To ear the land that hath some hope to grow, 

For I have none :—Let no man speak again 
To alter this, for counsel is but vain. 

Aum. My liege, one word. 

K. Rich. He does me double wrong 

That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue. 
Discharge my followers, let them hence.—Away, 

From Richard’s night to Bolingbroke’s fair day. 


[SHAKSPERE. 


I come 


[To 4m 


[Exit 


SHAKSPERE.] 


THE DEPOSITION OF RICHARD. 


421 


116.—THE DEPOSITION OF RICHARD. 

Shakspere. 

The scene of fiery contention in Westminster Hall, which we are about to give, follows the 
chroniclers very literally. Shakspere has, however, placed this remarkable exhibition of vin¬ 
dictive charges and recriminations before the deposition of Richard. It took place after 
Henry’s coronation. The protest of the Bishop of Carlisle, whom Holinshed calls “ a bold 
bishop and a faithful,” also, according to most authorities, followed the deposition. It is 
stated to have been made on a request from the Commons that Richard might have “judg¬ 
ment decreed against him, so as the realm were not troubled by him.” There is considerable 
doubt whether this speech was delivered at all. It does not appear that Richard made his 
resignation in Parliament, but that Northumberland and other peers, prelates, and knights, 
with justices and notaries, attended the captive on the 29th September, 1399, in the chief 
chamber of the king’s lodging in the Tower, where he read aloud and subscribed the scroll of 
resignation, saying that, if it were in his power, he would that the Duke of Lancaster there 
present should be his successor. These instruments were read to the Parliament the day 
following. So Holinshed relates the story. Froissart, however, details the ceremonies of the 
surrender with more minuteness : “ On a day the Duke of Lancaster, accompanied with lords, 
dukes, prelates, earls, barons, and knights, and of the notablest men of London, and of other 
good towns, rode to the Tower, and there alighted. Then King Richard was brought into 
the hall, appareled like a king in his robes of state, his sceptre in his hand, and his crown on 
his head; then he stood up alone, not holden hor stayed by no man, and said aloud : ‘ I have 
been King of England, Duke of Aquitaine, and lord of Ireland, about twenty-two years, which 
signiory, royalty, sceptre, crown, and heritage I clearly resign here to my cousin Henry cf 
Lancaster; and I desire him here, in this open presence, in entering of the same possession, 
to take this sceptre: ’ and so delivered it to the duke, who took it.” There can be no doubt 
that this apparently willing resignation, which his enemies said was made even with a merry 
countenance, was extorted from Richard by the fear of death. Northumberland openly pro¬ 
claimed this when he rebelled against Henry. In a very curious manuscript in the library of 
the king of France, from which copious extracts are given in Mr. Webb’s notes to the ‘ Me¬ 
trical History,’ there is a detailed account of a meeting between Richard and Bolingbroke in 
the Tower, at which York and Aumerle were present,—where the king, in a most violent rage, 
says, ‘ I am king, and will still continue king, in spite of all my enemies.” Shakspere has 
most skilfully portrayed this natural struggle of the will of the unhappy man, against the 
necessity by which he was overwhelmed. The deposition scene shows us,—as faithfully as the 
glass which the poet introduces exhibits the person of the king,—the vacillations of a natuiv 
irresolute and yielding, but clinging to the phantom of power when the substance had passed 
away. There can be no doubt that Shakspere’s portrait of Richard II. is as historically true 
as it is poetically just. 

Scene. — London. Westminster Ilall. 

Bolingbroke, Aumerle, Surrey, Northumberland, Percy, Fitzwater, another Lord, Bishop 

of Carlisle, Abbot of Westminster, and Attendants. 

Enter York, attended. 

York. Great duke of Lancaster, I come to thee 
From plume-pluck’d Richard; who with willing soul 
Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields 
To the possession of thy royal hand : 

Ascend his throne, descending now from him,— 

And long live Henry, of that name the fourth ! 

Holing. In God’s name, I’ll ascend the regal throne. 

Car. Marry, heaven forbid !— 

Worst in this royal presence may I speak, 

Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth. 








HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE. 


122 

Would God, that any in this noble presence 
Were enough noble to be upright judge 
Of noble Richard ; then true nobleness would 
Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong. 

What subject can give sentence on his king ? 

And who sits here that is not Richard’s subject ? 

Thieves are not judg’d but they are by to hear, 

Although apparent guilt be seen in them ; 

And shall the figure of God’s majesty, 

His captain, steward, deputy elect, 

Anointed, crowned, planted many years, 

Be judg’d by subject and inferior breath, 

And he himself not present ? 0, forfend it, God, 

That, in a Christian climate, souls refin’d 
Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed ! 

I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks, 

Stirr’d up by heaven thus boldly for his king. 

My lord of Hereford, here, whom you call king, 

Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford’s king : 

And if you crown him, let me prophesy, — 

The blood of English shall manure the ground, 

And future ages groan for this foul act; 

Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels, 

And, in this seat of peace, tumultuous wars 
Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound; 

Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny, 

Shall here inhabit, and this land be call’d 
The field of Golgotha, and dead men’s skulls. 

0, if you rear this house against this house, 

It will the woefullest division prove 
That ever fell upon this cursed earth : 

Prevent it, resist it, and let it not be so, 

Lest child, child’s children, cry against you—woe ! 

North. Well have you argued, sir ; and, for your pains, 

Of capital treason we arrest you here : 

My lord of Westminster, be it your charge 
To keep him safely till his day of trial. 

May’t please you, lords, to grant the commons’ suit ? 

Boling. Fetch hither Richard, that in common view 
He may surrender; so we shall proceed 
Without suspicion. 

York. I will be his conduct. {Exit, 

Boling. Lords, you that here are under our arrest, 

Procure your sureties for your days of answer : 

Little are we beholden to your love, \To Carlisle 

And little look’d for at your helping hands. 

Re-enter York , with King Richard , and Officers bearing the croicrL , Sc, 

K. Rich. Alack, why am I sent for to a king, 

Before I have shook off the regal thoughts 
Wherewith I reign’d? I hardly yet have learn’d 
To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee ;— 




SHAKSPERE.] THE DEPOSITION OF RICHARD. 423 

Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me 

To this submission. Yet I will remember 

The favours of these men : Were they not mine ? 

Did they not sometimes cry, all hail ! to me 1 
So Judas did to Christ: but he, in twelve, 

Found truth in all but one ; I, in twelve thousand, nOEfc. 

God save the king !—Will no man say, amen ] 

Am I both priest and clerk ? well then, amen. 

God save the king ! although I be not he ; 

And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me.— 

To do what service am I sent for hither % 

York. To do that office, of thine own good will, 

Which tired majesty did make thee offer,— 

The resignation of thy state and crown 
To Henry Bolingbroke. 

K. Rich. Give me the crown :—Here, cousin, seize the crown } 

Here, cousin, on this side my hand ; on that side thine. 

Now is this golden crown like a deep well. 

That owes two buckets filling one another ; 

The emptier ever dancing in the air, 

The other down, unseen, and full of water : 

That bucket down, and full of tears, am I, 

Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high. 

Boling. I thought you had been willing - to resign. 

K. Rich. My crown I am, but still my griefs are mine: 

You may my glories and my state depose, 

But not my griefs ; still am I king of those. 

Boling. Part of your cares you give me with your crown. 

K. Rich. Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down- 
My care is loss of care, by old care done ; 

Your care is gain of care, by new care won : 

The cares I give I have, though given away ; 

They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay. 

Boling. Are you contented to resign the crown ? 

K. Rich. Ay, no no, ay ; for I must nothing be ; 

Therefore no, no, for I resign to thee. 

Now mark me how I will undo myself :— 

I give this heavy weight from off my head, 

And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand, 

The pride of kingly sway from out my heart ; 

With mine own tears I wash away my balm, 

With mine own hands I give away my crown, 

With mine own tongue deny my sacred state, 

With mine own breath release all duteous oaths: 

All pomp and majesty I do forswear ; 

My manors, rents, revenues, I forego ; 

My acts, decrees, and statutes, I deny : 

God pardon all oaths that are broke to me ! 

God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee! 

Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev’d; 

And thou with all pleas'd, that hast all aehiev d! 

Long mayst thou live in Bichard’s seat to sit, 









424 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERR 


And soon lie Richard in an earthy pit ! 

God save King Henry unking’d Richard says, 

And send him many years of sunshine days ! 

What more remains ? 

North. No more, but that you read [ Offering a paper. 

These accusations, and these grievous crimes, 

Committed by your person, and your follower 
Against the state and profit of this land; 

That, by confessing them, the souls of men 
May deem that you are worthily depos’d. 

K. Rich. Must I do so 1 and must I ravel out 
My weav’d-up follies ! Gentle Northumberland, 

If thy offences were upon record, 

Would it not shame thee, in so fair a troop, 

To read a lecture of them 1 If thou wouldst, 

There shouldst thou find one heinous article, 

Containing the deposing of a king, 

And cracking the strong warrant of an oath, 

Mark’d with a blot, damn’d in the book of heaven :— 

Nay, all of you, that stand and look upon me, 

Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself, 

Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands. 

Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates 
Have here deliver’d me to my sour cross, 

And water cannot wash away your sin. 

North. My lord, despatch ; read o’er these articles. 

K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see : 

And yet salt water blinds them not so much, 

But they can see a sort of traitors here. 

Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself, 

I find myself a traitor with the rest : 

Tor I have given here my soul’s consent 
To undeck the pompous body of a king; 

Made glory base ; a sovereignty a slave ; 

Proud majesty a subject; state a peasant. 

North. My lord,- 

K. Rich. No lord of thine, thou haught, insulting man. 

No, nor no man’s lord; I have no name, no title,— 

No, not that name was given me at the font,— 

But’t is usurp’d :—Alack the heavy day, 

That I have worn so many winters out, 

And know not now what name to call myself! 

0, that I were a mockery king of snow, 

Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke, 

To melt myself away in water-drops !— 

Good king,—great king,—(and yet not greatly good,) 

An if my word be sterling yet in England, 

Let it command a mirror hither straight, 

That it may show me what a face I have, 

Since it is bankrupt of his majesty. 

Boling. Go some of you, and fetch a looking-glass. 

[Exit an Attendant. 



8HAKSPERE.] 


THE DEPOSITION OF RICHARD. 


425 




North. Read o’er this paper, while the glass doth come. 

K Rich. Fiend ! thou torment’st me ere I come to hell. 

Boling. Urge it no more, my lord Northumberland. 

North. The commons will not then be satisfied. 

K. Rich. They shall be satisfied : I ’ll read enough, 

When I do see the very book indeed 
Where all my sins are writ, and that’s myself. 

Re-enter A ttendant with a glass. 

Give me that glass, and therein will I read. 

No deeper wrinkles yet ? Hath sorrow stiuck 
So many blows upon this face of mine, 

And made no deeper wounds 1 —0 flattering glass, 

Like to my followers in prosperity, 

Thou dost beguile me ! Was this face the face 
That every day under his household roof 
Did keep ten thousand men ? Was this the face 
That, like the sun, did make beholders wink ? 

Is this the face which fac’d so many follies, 

That was at last outfac’d by Bolingbroke ? 

A brittle glory shineth in this face : 

As brittle as the glory is the face; . , , 

[Dashes the glass against the ground. 

For there it is, crack’d in an hundred shivers. 

Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport, 

How soon my sorrow hath destroy’d my face. 

Boling. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy d 

The shadow of your face. 

K. Rich. Say that again. 

The shadow of my sorrow ? Ha ! let’s see: 

’Tis very true my grief lies all within ; 

And these external manners of laments 
Are merely shadows to the unseen giief, 

That swells with silence in the tortur d soul; . 

There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king, 

For thy great bounty, that not only giv st 
Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way 
How to lament the cause. I ’ll beg one boon, 

And then be gone, and trouble you no more. 

Shall I obtain it l . 

Boling. Name it, fair cousin. 

K. Rich . Fair coasin ? I am greater tnan a king • 

For when I was a king my flatterers 

Were then but subjects ; being now a subject, 

I have a king here to my flatterer. 

Being so great, I have no need to beg, 

Boling. Yet ask. 

K. Rich. And shall I have ? 

Boling. You shall. 

K. Rich. Then give me leave to go. 

Boling. Whither? , 

K. Rich. Whither you will, so X were from youi sights. 


/ 


1 




426 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERK. 


Boling. Go, some of you, convey him to the Tower. 

K. Rich. 0, good ! Convey I—Conveyers are you all, 

That rise thus nimbly by a true king’s fall. 

\Ex. K. Richard , some Lords , and a Guard. 


117.—HOW SIR JOHN FROISSART ARRIVED IN ENGLAND. 

Froissart. 


[From Lord Berners’s Translation.'] 


True it was, that I Sir John Froissart, (as at that time treasurer and canon of 
Chimay, in the earldom of Hainault, in the diocese of Liege), had great affection 
to go and see the realm of England, when I had been in Abbeville, and saw that 
truce was taken between the realms of England and France, and other countries to 
them conjoined, and their adherents, to endure four years by sea and by land. 
Many reasons moved me to make that voyage ; one was, because in my youth I 
had been brought up in the court of the noble king Edward the Third, and of 
queen Philippa his wife, and among their children, and other barons of England, 
that as then were alive, in whom I found all nobleness, honour, largess, and courtesy; 
therefore I desired to see the country, thinking thereby I should live much the 
longer, for I had not been there twenty-seven years before, and I thought, though 
I saw not those lords that I left alive there, yet at the least I should see their heirs, 
the which should do me much good to see, and also to justify the histories and 
matters that I had written of them : and or I took my journey, I spoke with duke 
Aubert of Baviere, and with the earl of Hainault, Holland, Zeland, and lord of Freese, 
and with my lord William earl of Ostrevaunt, and with my right honourable lady 
Jane duchess of Brabant and of Luxembourg, and with the lord Engerant, lord Coucv, 
and with the gentle knight the lord of Gomegynes, who in his youth and mine had 
been together in England in the king’s court; in likewise so had I seen there the 
lord of Coucy, and divers others nobles of France, holden great housholds in Lon¬ 
don, when they lay there in hostage for the redemption of king John, as then French 
king, as it hath been shewed here before in this history. 

These said lords and the duchess of Brabant, counselled me to take this journey, 
and gave me letters of recommendation to the king of England and to his uncles, 
saving the lord Coucy ; he would not write to the king because he was a French¬ 
man, therefore he durst not, but to his daughter, who as then was called duchess 
of Ireland ; and I had engrossed in a fair book well enlumined, all the matters of 
amours and moralities, that in four and twenty years before I had made and com¬ 
piled, which greatly quickened my desire to go into England to see king Richard, 
who was son to the noble prince of Wales and of Aquitaine, for I had not seen this 
king Richard sith he was christened in the Cathedral church of Bourdeaux, at which 
time I was there, and thought to have gone with the prince the journey into 
Galicia in Spain ; and when we were in the city of Aste,* the prince sent me back 
into England, to the queen his mother. 

For these causes and other I had great desire to go into England to see the king 
and his uncles.. Also I had this said fair book well covered with velvet, garnished 
with clasps of silver and gilt, thereof to make a present to the king at my first 
coming to his presence ; I had such desire to go this voyage, that the pain and 
travail grieved me nothing. Thus provided of horses and other necessaries, I 
passed the sea at Calais, and came to Dover, the 1 2th day of the month of July (1395); 
when I came there I found no man of my knowledge, it was so long sith I liad 


* Dax. 



FROISSART.] 


HOW SIR JOHN FROISSART ARRIVED IN ENGLAND. 


427 


been in England, and the houses were all newly changed, and young children were 
become men, and the women knew me not, nor I them ; so I abode half a day and 
all a night at Dover ; it was on a Tuesday, and the next day by nine of the clock 
I came to Canterbury, to Saint Thomas’ Shrine, and to the tomb of the noble prince 
of Wales, who is there interred right richly ; there I heard mass, and made mine 
offering to the holy saint, and then dined at my lodging ; and there I was informed 
how king Richard should be there the next day on pilgrimage, which was after his 
return out of Ireland, where he had been the space of nine months or theie aoout: 
the king had a devotion to visit Saint Thomas’ shrine, and also because the piince 
his father w 7 as there buried : then I thought to abide the king theie, and so I did , 
and the next day the king came thither with a noble company of lords, ladies, and 
damoselles : and when I was among them they seemed to me all new folks, I knew 
no person ; the time was sore changed in twenty-seven years, and with the king as 
then was none of his uncles ; the duke of Lancaster was in Aquitaine, and the 
dukes of York and Gloucester were in other businesses, so that I was at the first 
all abashed, for if I had seen any ancient knight that had been with king Edwaid, 
or with the prince, I had been well recomforted and would have gone to him, but 
I could see none such. Then I demanded fora knight called Sir Itichaid Stuiy, 
whether he were alive or not 1 and it was shewed me yes, but he was at London. 
Then 1 thought to go to the Lord Thomas Percy, great seneschal of England, who 
was there with the king: so I acquainted me with him, and I found him right 
honourable and gracious, and he offered to present me and my letters to the king, 
whereof I was right joyful, for it behoved me to have some means to bring me to 
the presence of such a prince as the king of England was ; he went to t ie kings 
chamber, at which time the king was gone to sleep, and so he shewed me, and 
bade me return to my lodging and come again, and so I did ; and when I came to 
the bishop’s palace, I found the Lord Thomas Percy ready to ride to Osprmg, and 
he counseled me to make as then no knowledge of my being there but to follow 
the court : and said he would cause me ever to be well lodged till the king should 
be at the fair castle of Leeds, in Kent. I ordered me after his counsel and rode 
before to Ospring ; and by adventure I was lodged in an house where was lodged a 
crentle knight of England, called Sir William Lisle ; he was tarried there behind .he 
king, because he had pain in his head all the night before : he was one of the 
kincr’s privy chamber ; and when he saw that I was a stranger, and as he thought, 
of the marches of France, because of my language, we fell in acquaintance togethci. 
for gentlemen of England are courteous, tractable, and glad of acquaintance then 
he demanded what I was, and what business I had to do in those parts ; I s lewe 
“great part of my coming thither, and all that the Lord Thomas Percy had 
said to S me, and ordered me to do. He then answered and said, how I could not 
have a better mean, and that on the Friday the king should be at the castle of 
Leeds ; and he shewed me that when I came there, I should find there the Due 
York the kind’s uncle, whereof I was right glad, because I had letters directed to 
M?and also that in his youth he had seen me in the court «**£%$* 
Eflward his father and with the queen his mother. Then on the Frida} m t 
mornim' Sir William Lisle and I rode together, and on the way I demanded of him 
“ he htd been with the king in the voyage into Ireland. He answered me yes 
Then I demanded of him the manner of the hole that u.in Ireland, called & ^ 
Patrick’s Purgatory, if it were true that was said of it oi no . 1 

Isu ety such a hole there was, and that he himself and another kmgh of England 
Jbeen there while the king lay at Duvelin * and sard how they entered into the 


* Dubim. 







428 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [FROISSART, 

hole and were closed in at the sun going down, and abode there all night, and the 
next morning issued out again at the sun rising. Then I demanded if he had any 
such strange sights or visions as were spoken of. Then he said how that when he 
and his fellow were entered and past the gate that was called the Purgatory of 
Saint Patrick, and that they were descended and gone down three or four paces, 
descending down as into a cellar, a certain hot vapour rose against them, and strako 
so into their heads, that they were fain to sit down on the stairs, which are of 
stone ; and after they had sat there a season, they had great desire to sleep, and 
so fell asleep and slept there all night. Then I demanded that if in their sleep 
they knew where they were, or what visions they had. He answered me, that in 
sleeping they entered into great imaginations and in marvellous dreams, otherwise 
than they were wont to have in their chambers : and in the morning they issued 
out, and within a short season clean forgat their dreams and visions, wherefore he 
said he thought all that matter was but a fantasy. Then I left speaking any fur¬ 
ther of that matter, because I would fain have known of him what was done in the 
voyage in Ireland : and I thought as then to have demanded what the king had 
done in that journey; but then company of other knights came and fell in com¬ 
munication with him, so that I left my purpose for that time. Thus we rode to 
Leeds, and thither came the king, and all his company, and there I found the Lord 
Edmond Duke of York. Then I went to him and delivered my letters from the 
earl of Hainault his cousin, and from the earl of Ostrevant. The duke knew me 
well, and made me good cheer, and said : Sir John, hold you always near to us, and 
we shall shew you love and courtesy : we are bound thereto for the love of time 
past, and for love of my lady the old queen my mother, in whose court ye were, 
we have good remembrance thereof. Then I thanked him as reason required. So 
I was advanced by reason of him and Sir Thomas Percy, and Sir William Lisle ; by 
their means I was brought into the king’s chamber, and into his presence by means 
of his uncle the duke of York. Then I delivered my letters to the king, and he 
took and read them at good leisure. Then he said to me that I was welcome, as 
he that had been and is of the English court. As on that day I shewed not the 
king the book that I had brought for him, he was so sore occupied with great 
affairs, that I had as then no leisure to present my book. 

****** 

On the Sunday following all such as had been there were departed, and all 
their councillors, except the duke of York, who abode still about the king ; and the 
Lord Thomas Percy and Sir Richard Stury shewed my business to the king. Then 
the king desired to see my book that I had brought for him: so he saw it in his 
chamber, for I had laid it there ready on his bed. When the king opened it, it 
pleased him well, for it was fair enlumined and written, and covered with crimson 
velvet, with ten buttons of silver and gilt, and roses of gold in the midst, with two 
great clasps gilt, richly wrought. Then the king demanded me whereof it treated, 
and I shewed him how it treated matters of love ; whereof the king was glad and 
looked in it, and read it in many places, for he could speak and read French very 
well; and he took it to a knight of his chamber, named Sir Richard Creadon, to 
bear it into his secret chamber. 


FROISSART.] 


THE CONQUEST OF IRELAND. 


429 


118.—THE CONQUEST OE IRELAND. 

Froissart. 

The same Sunday I fell in acquaintance with a squire of England, called Henry 
Cristall ; an honest man and a wise, and could well speak French : he companied 
with me, because he saw the king and other lords made me good cheer, and also 
he had seen the book that I gave to the king ; also Sir Richard Stury had shewed 
him how I was a maker of histories. Then he said to me as hereaftei followeth. 
Sir John, quoth he, have ye not found in the king’s court sith ye came hither no 
man that hath told you of the voyage that the king made but late into Ireland, and 
in what manner the four kings of Ireland are come into the obeisance of the king 
of England h and I answered, no. Then shall I shew you, quoth the squire, to the 
intent that ye may put it in perpetual memory, when ye return into your own 
country, and have leisure thereto. I was rejoiced of his words, and thanked him. 
Then he began thus,, and said : Sir John, it is not in memory that either any king 
of England made such appareil and provision for any journey to make war against 
the Irishmen, nor such a number of men of arms nor archers. The king vas nine 
months in the marches of Ireland, to his great cost and charge to the lealm, for 
they bare all his expenses ; and the merchants, cities, and good towns of the lealm 
thought it well bestowed, when they saw the king return home again with honour. 
The number that he had thither, gentlemen and archers, were four thousand knights, 
and thirty thousand archers, well paid weekly, that every man was well pleased ; 
but I shew you, because ye should know the truth, Ireland is one of the evil 
countries of the world to make war upon, or to bring under subjection, for it is 
closed strongly and widely with high forests, and great waters and marshes, and 
inhabitable ; it is hard to enter to do them of the country any damage, nor ye 
shall find no town nor person to speak withal, for the men draw to the woodo, and 
dwell in caves and small cottages, under trees and among bushes and hedges, like 
wild savage beasts : and when they know that any man maketh war against them, 
and is entered into their countries, then they draw together to the straits and 
passages, and defend it, so that no man can enter into them; and when they see 
their time they will soon take their advantage on their enemies, for they know the 
country and are light people : for a man of arms being never so well horsed, and run 
as fast as he can, the Irishman will run a foot as fast as he and overtake him, yea, 
and leap up upon his horse behind him, and draw him from his horse : for they 
are strong men in the arms, and have sharp weapons with large blades with two 
edges after the manner of dart heads, wherewith they will slay their enemy ; and 
they repute not a man dead till they have cut his throat and open his belly and 
taken out his heart, and carry it away with them : some say, such as know their 
nature, that they do eat it, and have great delight therein: they take 110 mai * to 
ransom ; and when they see at any encounter that they be overmatched, then they 
will depart asunder, and go and hide themselves in bushes, woods hedges, and 
caves so that no man shall find them: also Sir William of Windsor, who hath mos- 
used the wars in those parts of any other Englishman, yet he couldl never learn t le 
manner of the country, nor know their conditions. They De hard people and o 
rude engin and wit, and of divers frequentations and usage ; they set nothing by 
jollity nor fresh apparel, nor by nobleness : for though their realm be sovereignly 
o-overned by kings, whereof they have plenty, yet they will take no knowlej ge of 
Gentleness, but will continue in their rudeness, according as they are broug it up^ 
Truth it is, that four of the principal kings and most puissant after ,lie manner o 
the country, are come to the obeisance of the king of England by love and fairness, 
and not by battle nor constraint. The earl of Ormond, who maicheth upon them, 







430 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [FROISSART. 

hath taken great pain, and hath so treated with them, that they came to Duvelin * 
to the king, and submitted them to him, to be under the obeisance of the crown of 
England, wherefore the king and all the realm reputeth this for a great and hon¬ 
ourable deed, and thinketh this voyage well bestowed, for king Edward of good 
memory did never so much upon them as king Richard did in this voyage ; the 
honour is great, but the profit is but little, for though they be kings, yet no man 
can devise nor speak of ruder personages. 

I shall shew you somewhat of their rudeness, to the intent it may be ensample 
again people of other nations ; I know it well, for J have proved it by themselves : 
for when they were at Duvelin I had the governance of them about a month, by 
the king’s commandment and his counsel, to the intent that I should learn them to 
use themselves according to the usage of England, and because I could speak their 
language as well as French or English, for in my youth I was brought up among 
them ; I was with the earl of Ormond, father to the earl that now is, who loved 
me right well, because I could as then ride and handle an horse meetly well; and 
it fortuned one time that the said earl (who as then was my master) was sent with 
three hundred spears and a thousand archers into the marches of Ireland, to make 
war with the Irishmen, for always the Englishmen have had war with them, to 
subdue and put them under ; and on a day as the said earl went against them, I 
rode on a goodly horse of his, light and swift: thus I rode and followed my 
master, and the same day the Irishmen were laid in a bushment. and when we 
came near them they opened their bushment; then the English archers began to 
shoot so eagerly, that the Irishmen could not suffer it, for they are but simply 
armed, therefore they recoiled and went back : then the earl my master followed 
in the chase, and I that was well horsed followed him as near as I could ; and it 
fortuned so that my horse was afraid, and took his bridle in his teeth and ran away 
with me, and whether I would or not, he bare me so far forth among the Irishmen, 
that one of them, by lightness of running, leapt up behind me, and embraced me 
in his arms, and did me none other hurt, but so led me out of the way, and so 
rode still behind me the space of two hours, and at the last brought me into a 
secret place, thick of bushes, and there he found his company, who were come 
thither and scaped all dangers, for the Englishmen pursued not so far : then as he 
shewed he had great joy of me, and led me into a town and a strong house among 
the woods, waters, and rivers. The town was called Harpely, and the gentleman 
that took me was called Brine Costeret, he was a goodly man, and as it hath been 
shewed me, he is as yet alive ; howbeit, he is very aged. This Brine Costeret kept 
me seven year with him, and gave me his daughter in marriage, of whom I had two 
daughters. I shall shew you how I was delivered. 

It happened at the seven years end one of their kings, named Arthur Mackemur 
king of Leinster, made an army against duke Lion of Clarence, son to king Edward 
of England, and against Sir William of Windsor : and not far from the city of 
Leinster, the Englishmen and Irishmen met together, and many were slain and 
taken on both parties, but the Englishmen obtained the victory, and the Irishmen 
fled, and the king Arthur saved himself, but Brine Costeret, my wife’s father, was 
taken prisoner under the duke of Clarence banner: he was taken on the same 
courser that he took me on ; the horse was well known among the earl of Ormond's 
folks ; and then he shewed how I was alive and was at his manor of Harpelin, and 
how I had wedded his daughter, whereof the duke of Clarence, Sir William Windsor, 
and the Englishmen, were right glad. Then it was shewed him that if he would 
be delivered out of prison, that he should deliver me into the Englishmen’s hands, 


* Dublin. 


FROISSART.] 


THE CONQUEST OF IRELAND. 


431 


and my wife and children ; with great pain he made that bargain, for he loved me 
well, and my wife his daughter, and our children ; when he saw he could make his 
finance none otherwise, he accorded thereto, but he retained mine eldest daughter 
still with him ; so I and my wife and our second daughter returned into England, 
and so I went and dwelt beside Bristow, on the river of Severn : my two daughters 
are married, and she in Ireland hath three sons and two daughters, and she that I 
brought with me hath four sons and two daughters ; and because the language of 
Irish is as ready to me as the English tongue, (for I have always continued with 
my wife, and taught my children the same speech), therefore the king my sovereign 
lord and his council, commanded me to give attendance on these four kings, and to 
govern and bring them to reason, and to the usage and customs of England, seeing 
they had yielded them to be under his obeisance, and of the crown of England and 
they were sworn to hold it for ever ; and yet I ensure you for all that, I did my 
power to ensign and to learn them good manner, yet for all that, they be right rude 
and of gross engin : much pain I had to make them to speak anything in fair 
manner : somewhat I altered them but not much, for in many cases they drew to 
their natural rudeness. The king my sovereign lord’s intent was, that in manner, 
countenance, and apparel of clothing, they should use according to the manner of 
England, for the king thought to make them all four knights : they had a fair 
house to lodge in in Duvelin, and I was charged to abide still with them and not 
to depart ; and so two or three days I suffered them to do as they list, and said 
nothing to them, but followed their own appetites ; they would sit at the table and 
make countenance neither good nor fair. Then I thought I should cause them to 
change that manner : they w r ould cause their minstrels, their servants, and varlets, 
to sit with them and to eat in their own dish, and to drink of their cups ; and 
they shewed me that the usage of their country was good, for they said, in all 
things, (except their beds,) they were and lived as common. So the fourth day I 
ordained other tables to be covered in the hall, after the usage of England, and I 
made these four kings to sit at the high table, and their minstrels at another board, 

S and their servants and varlets at another beneath them, whereof by seeming they 
were displeased, and beheld each other and would not eat, and said how I would 
take from them their good usage, wherein they had been nourished. Then I 
answered them smiling to appease them, that it was not honourable for their estates 
to do as they did before, and that they must leave it, and use the custom of Eng¬ 
land, and that it was the king’s pleasure they should so do, and how he was charged 
so to order them. When they heard that, they suffered it, because they had put 
themselves under the obeisance of the king of England, and persevered in the same 
as long as I was with them ; yet they had one use which I knew well was used in 

[ their country, and that was they did wear no breeches ; I caused breeches of linen 
cloth to be made for them. While I was with them I caused them to leave many 
rude things, as well in clothing as in other causes. Much ado I had at the first to 
j cause them to wear gowns of silk furred with minever and grey : for before these 
; kings thought themselves well appareled when they had on a mantle. They rode 
always without saddles and stirrups, and with great pain I made them to ride after 
our usage. And on a time I demanded them of their belief, wherewith they were 
not content, and said how they believed on God and on the Trinity, as well as we. 
Then I demanded on what pope was their affection. They answered me, on him of 
Rome. Then I demanded if they would gladly receive the order of knighthood, 
and that the king of England should make them knights, according to the usage of 
: France and England, and other countries. They answered how they were knights 
already, and that sufficed for them. I asked where they were made knights, and 
how and when. They answered, that in the age of seven year they were made 









432 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [FROISSART. 

knights in Ireland, and that a king maketh his son a knight, and if the son have no 
father alive, then the next of his blood may make him knight, and then this young 
knight shall begin to joust with small spears, such as they may bear with their 
ease, and run against a shield set on a stake in the field, and the more spears that 
he breaketh, the more he shall be honoured. I knew their manner well enough, 
though I did demand it. But then I said, that the knighthood that they had taken 
in their youth, sufficed not to the king of England, but I said he should give them 
after another manner. They demanded how. I answered, that it should be in the 
holy church, which was the most worthiest place. * Then they enclined somewhat 
to my words. ‘Within two days after the earl of Ormond came to them, who could 
right well speak the language, for some of his lands lay in those parts ; he was sent 
to them by the king and his council ; they all honoured him and he them : then 
he fell in sweet communication with them, and he demanded of them how they 
liked me. They answered and said, well, for he hath well shewed us the usage of 
this country, wherefore we ought to thank him, and so we do. This answer pleased 
well the earl of Ormond. Then he entered little and little to speak of the order of 
chivalry, which the king would they should receive ; he shewed it them from point 
to point, how they should behave themself, and what pertained to knighthood. 
The Earl’s words pleased much these four kings, whose names were these :—first, 
the great Anele, king of Mecte ; the second, Brine of Thomond, king of Thomond ; 
the third, Arthur of Mackemur, king of Leinster ; the fourth, Conhue, king of 
Cheveno and Darpe ; they were made knights by king Richard of England, in the 
Cathedral church of Duvelin, dedicate of St. John Baptist : it was done on our 
lady day in March, as then it fell on a Thursday. These four kings watched all the 
night before in the church, and the next day at high mass time, with great solem¬ 
nity, they were made knights, and with them Sir Thomas Orphen, Sir Joatas Pado, 
and Sir John Pado his cousin. These kings sat that day at the table with king 
Richard ; they were regarded of many folks, because their behaving was strange to 
the manner of England, and other countries, and ever naturally men desire to see 
novelties. Then I sir John Froissart said : Henry, I believe you well, and I would 
it had cost me largely that I had been there : and surely this year past I had come 
hither, and it had not been for that I heard of the death of queen Anne of Eng¬ 
land, which did let me : but one thing I would desire of you to know, how these 
four kings of Ireland come so soon to the king of England’s obeisance, when king 
Edward the king’s grandfather, who was so valiant a prince and so redoubted over 
all, could never subdue them nor put them under, and yet he had always war with 
them ; and in that they are subdued now, ye said it was by treaty, and by the 
grace of God ; indeed the grace of God is good, who so can have it, it is much 
worth ; but it is seen now-a-days, that earthly princes getteth little without it be 
by puissance. I desire to know this, for when I shall come into Hainault, of which 
country I am of, I shall be examined of this and many other things, both by duke 
Aubert of Baviere, earl of Hainault, of Holland, and of Zeland, and also by bis son 
William of Baviere, who writeth himself lord of Frese, which is a great country 
and a puissant, which country the said duke and his son claimeth to have by right 
succession, and so did their predecessors before them : but the Fresons would never 
fall to any reason, nor come under obeisance, nor as yet do not unto this day. Then 
answered Sir Henry Cristall and said : Sir John, to shew you the very truth I can 
not, but as many a one saith, and it is to suppose, that the great puissance that the 
kiug had ever with him, and tarried there in their country nine months, and every 
man well paid, abashed the Irishmen : also the sea was closed from them on all 
parts, whereby their livings and merchandises might not enter into their countries, 
though they that dwell far within the realm cared little for it, (for they know not 


FROISSART.] 


THE CONQUEST OF IRELAND. 


43 ,) 


what merchandise meaneth, nor they live but grossly and rudely like unto beasts;) 
yet such as liveth in the marches of England, and by the sea coast, use feat of 
merchandise with us, and into other places. King Edward of noble memory, in his 
time had to answer so many wars, what in France, Brittany, Gascon}, and Scot¬ 
land, so that his people were divided in divers places, and sore occupied, wherefore 
he could not send no great number into Ireland ; but when the Irishmen saw the 
great number of men of war that king Bichard had in Ireland this last journey, the 
Irishmen advised themself and came to obeisance ; and indeed of old time there 
was a king in England named Edward, who is a saint and canonised, and honouied 
through all this realm in his time he subdued the Danes, and discomfited £hem 
by battle on the sea three times : and this saint Edward king of England, Lord of 
Ireland, and of Aquitaine, the Irishmen loved and dread him much more than any 
other king of England that had been before : and therefore our sovereign lord king 
Bichard this year past, when he was in Ireland, in all his armories and devices ; he 
left the bearing of the arms of England, as the libards and fleur de lises quarterly, 
and bare the arms of this saint Edward, that is a cross patent, gold and goules, 
with four white martinets in the field : whereof it was said the Irishmen were well 
pleased and the sooner they enclined to him ; for of truth the predecessois of these 
four kings obeyed with faith and homage to the said king Edward, and they repute 
kino- Bichard a good man and of good conscience, and so they have done to him 
faith and homage, as they ought to do, and in like manner as their predecessors 
sometime did to saint Edward. Thus I have shewed you the manner how the king 
our sovereign lord hath this year accomplished and furnished his voyage in Ireland; 
put it in your memorial, to the extent that when ye shall return into your own 
country ye may write it in your chronicle, with many other histories that depend 
to the same matter. Then I thanked him, and said it should be done. So I tool 
leave of him Then I met with March the herald, and I demanded of him what 
a r ms this Henry Cristall bare ; and I shewed the herald how this Sir Henry had 
shewed me the manner of the king’s journey in Ireland, and the state of the four 
kines who had been, (as he said,) in his governing, morethan fifteen days at 
Duvelin The herald answered me and said : sir, he beareth in his arms silver, a 
chevern* goules, three besans goules. All these things I did put in writing, because 

I would not forget them. 


119.—THE DISCONTENTS IN ENGLAND. 


Froissart. 


The state generally of all men in England began to murmur and to rise one 
against another, and ministering of justice was clean stopped up in all couits10 
England whereof the valiant men and prelates, who loved rest and peace, and we 
clad to pay their duties, were greatly abashed ; for there rose in the realm companies 
in divers routs, keeping the fields and highways, so that merchants durst not ride 
abroad to exercise their merchandise for doubt of robbing: and no man knew to 
whom to complain to do them right, reason, and justice, which things were right 
prejudicial and displeasa.it to the good people of England, 

their Tccustomable usage ; for all people, labourers and merchants n England were 
wont to live in rest and peace, and to occupy their merchandise peaceably, and t e 
labourers'to 'labour their lands quietly ; and ther.it was, .ontrary 
chants rode from town to town with their merchandise, and had otnei gold o 
in their Piuses it was taken from them, and from other men and labourers out of 
their houses : these companions would take wheat, oats, beefs, muttons, poiks, an 









434 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [FROISSART. 

the poor men durst speak no word. These evil deeds daily multiplied so, tha„ 
great complaints and lamentations were made thereof throughout the realm, and 
the good people said, the time is changed upon us from good to evil, ever sith the 
death of good king Edward the Third, in whose days justice was well kept and 
ministered : in his days there was no man so hardy in England to take a hen or a 
chicken, or a sheep, witho.it he had paid truly for it ; and now-a-days all that we 
have is taken from us, and yet we dare not speak ; these things cannot long endure, 
but that England is likely to be lost without recovery ; we have a king now that 
will do nothing ; he entendeth but to idleness and to accomplish his pleasure, and 
by that he sheweth, he careth not how every thing goeth, so he may have his 
will. It were time to provide for remedy, or else our enemies will rejoice and 
mock us. 

* * * * * 

Thus the Londoners communed together, and not all only they, but also in 
livers other places of the realm ; but the chief insurrection that the people were 
in, was by the first setting on of them of London, for the commons of London were 
as chief, and by them lightly all other commons would be ruled ; and upon the 
mischief that they saw apparent in England, they had divers secret counsels toge¬ 
ther, and with them certain prelates and other knights of the realm, and they 
concluded to send into France for the earl of Derby, and were determined when he 
were come to shew him the evil governing of king Richard, and to put to him the 
crown and governing of the realm of England, and so to make him king and his 
heirs for ever, so that he will keep the realm in all good usages. Then it was 
thought that he that should go on that message must be a wise man and of good 
credence, for they thought it should be a great matter to get the earl of Derby out 
of France : for they said that for any simple words of a mean messenger, or for any 
letters, he would give no faith thereto, but rather think it should be to betray him. 
Then the Archbishop of Canterbury, a man of honour and prudence, was desired to 
do that message, who for the common profit of the realm accorded to go at their 
desires, and ordained for his departure so wisely that none knew thereof but such 
as ought to know it; and so he took a ship at London, and but seven all only with 
him, and so past without any peril, and came to Sluse in Flanders, and from thence 
to Ardenburg, and so to Gaunt, to Andwarpe,* to Athe in Brabant, and to Conde, 
and so to Yalencennes, and there took his lodging at the sign of the Swan, in the 
market-place, and there tarried a three days, and refreshed himself; he rode not 
like no bishop, but like a monk pilgrim, and discovered to no man what he was 
nor what he entended to do : the fourth day he departed, and took a man to be his 
guide to Paris, saying how he would go a pilgrimage to Saint More : he did so much 
that he came thither where as the earl of Derby was, at a place called Vi.ucetour,t 
beside Paris. When the Earl of Derby saw the bishop of Canterbury coming to 
him, his heart and spirits.rejoiced, and so did all such as were about him, for he 
thought well then to hear some news out of England. The bishop shewed not as 
then the cause of his coming, but dissimuled because every man should not know 
his entent, and therefore to cover his business, he said openly, he was come on 
pilgrimage to Saint More. All such as were about the earl thought it had been so. 
When the bishop saw his time he took apart the earl of Derby alone into a cham¬ 
ber, and closed the door to them ; then the bishop shewed the earl the debility of 
the realm of England, and of the desolation thereof, and how justice had no place 
to reign for fault of a good king, and how certain valiant men and prelates, with 
the Londoners and other in general, had devised a remedy, and for that cause ha 


* Oudenarde 


t Hotel de Winchester. 


FROISSART.] THE DISCONTENTS IN ENGLAND. 435 

was sent thither to him, to desire him to return into England, and they would 
make him king, because that Hi chard of Bourdeaux had done, and consented to be 
done so many evil deeds, that all the people sorrowed it, and are ready to risf 
against him ; and therefore, sir, now is the time or never for you to seek for youi 
deliverance and profit, and for the wealth of your children : for if ye entend not to 
help yourself and them also none other will ; for Richard of Bourdeaux giveth to 
them of his chamber and to other daily part of your inheritance and of your chil¬ 
dren, of the which many valiant men and the Londoners were sore displeased there¬ 
with, if they could amended it, but they durst never speak till now ; but because 
the king hath evil used himself against you and against your uncle the duke of 
Gloucester, who was taken by night and conveyed to Calais and there murdered, 
and the earl of Arundel beheaded without title of any good reason, and the earl of 
Warwick exiled, and you banished, and thus the realm of England is near dis¬ 
herited of all noble men, by whom the realm should be sustained : and also the 
king hath banished the earl of Northumberland and the lord Percy his son, because 
they spake somewhat against the king’s governance and his council. Thus they 
daily increase in doing evil, and none dare speak against it ; great part of the realm 
have pity thereof, and therefore they desire you to sleep no longer, but to take 
leave of the French king and return into England, there shall you be received 
with joy : and all this that I have said they will firmly uphold, for they desire to 
have none other king but you, ye are so well beloved in the realm. 

When the earl had heard the bishop’s words at length, he was not hasty in giving 
of answer, but leaned out of a window looking down into a garden, and studied a 
certain space and had many imaginations ; at last he turned him to the archbishop 
and said : Sir, your words causeth me to study. Loath 1 would be to take on me 
this enterprise, and loath I would be to leave it, for I know well that it will be long 
or I cannot return into England, without it be by the same means that ye have 
declared. Loath I would be to encline to your words, for the French king here 
and the Frenchmen do to me, and have done, and will do (if I list here to tarry), 
all the honour and courtesy that I can desire : and if so be by reason of your 
words, and promise of the Londoners, my good friends, that I should apply and 
agree to their wills and desire, and that thereby king Richard should be taken and 
destroyed, I should in that case bear great blame, whereof I would be right loath, 
if any other means might be found. Sir, quoth the bishop, I am sent hither to you 
in hope of all goodness ; call to you your council, and shew them what I have said, 
and I shall also shew them the cause of my coming, and I think they will not 
counsel you to the contrary. That shall I do, quoth the eai 1, for such a weighty 
matter requireth counsel. Then the earl called to him his council such as he trusted 
best. When they were before him, then the earl caused the bishop to shew them 
all the matter, and the cause of his coming thither. Then the earl demanded 
counsel what was best for him to do. They all answered with one voice : sir, God 
hath taken pity of you: howsoever ye do, refuse not this bargain, for ye shall never 
have a better : and surely •whosoever will enquire of your lineage, and from whence 
ye descended, ye are of the right stock and generation of Saint Edward, sometime 
king of England. Sir, thank the Londoners your good friends, who will help to 
deliver you out of danger, and have pity on your children, and of the desolation of 
the realm of England ; and sir, remember well what wrongs and injuries this 
Richard of Bourdeaux hath done to you and doth daily ; for when the marriage 
between you and the Countess of Ewe was near at a point, did not the earl of 
Salisbury break it, and called you traitor in the presence of the lu-ench king and 
other lords? which words are not to be pardoned, but ye ought to desire how to be 





436 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [FROISSART. 

revenged. Sir, if ye will not help' yourself, who should help you ? Sir, take good 
advice herein. 

When the earl heard his councillors so earnestly counsel him, his spirits opened 
and said : Sirs, I will do as ye will have me, for to have your counsel was the en- 
tent that I sent for you. Sir, quoth they, ye say well ; and sir, we counsel you 
truly to our power, and as the matter requireth. Then as secretly as they could 
they ordained for their departure ; then it was devised how they might pass the 
sea, or any knowledge thereof should come into England. 


120.—THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD. 

. Froissart. 

It was said to the king, when the matter could no longer be hid : Sir, advise 
you well; ye have need of good counsel shortly, for the Londoners and other 
cometh against you with great puissance, and hath made the earl of Derby your 
cousin their chief captain ; they have got him out of France ; this hath not been 
done without great treaty. When the king heard that, he was sore abashed, and 
wist not what to say, for all his spirits trembled ; for then he saw well the matters 
were likely to go evil against him,without he could get puissance to resist them. Then 
the king said: Sirs, make all our men ready, and send throughout my realm for 
aid, for I will not fly before my subjects. Sir, quoth they, the matter goeth evil, 
for your men do leave you, and fly away ; ye have lost the one half, and all the rest 
are sore abashed, and loseth countenance. Why ? quoth the king ; what will ye 
that I shall do ? Sir, leave the field, for. ye are not able to keep it, and get you 
into some strong castle till sir John Holland your brother come, who is advertised 
of all this matter ; and when he is come he shall find some remedy, either by force 
of arms or else by treaty, at least to bring you into some better case than ye be in 
at this present time, for if ye keep the field, peradventure some will forsake you 
and go to him. To this counsel the king agreed. At that time the earl of Salis¬ 
bury was not with the king ; he w r as in his country. When he heard how the earl 
of Derby with the Londoners and great puissance rode against the king, he imagined 
that the matter was in peril for him and for the king, and for such as the king had 
been counselled by ; so he sat still to hear other tidings ; also the Duke of York 
was not with the king, but his son the earl of Rutland was always with the king, 
for two causes ; the one was, king Richard loved him entirely ; and another was, 
because he was constable of England ; therefore by right he ought to be with the 
king. When the king had supped, new tidings came again to him, saying : sir, it 
is time to take advice how ye will order yourself; your puissance is not sufficient 
against them that cometh against you ; it cannot avail you to make battle against 
them ; it behoveth you to pass this danger by sad advice and good counsel, and by 
wisdom appease them that be your evil willers, as ye have done or this time, and 
then correct them after at leisure. There is a castle a twelve mile hence, called the 
castle of Flint, which is strong; we counsel you to go thither, and close you within 
it till ye hear other news from the earl of Huntingdon your brother, and from other 
of your friends, and send into Ireland for succours ; and the French king your 
father-in-law, when he knoweth of your need, he will comfort you. The king 
followed that counsel, and appointed them that should ride with him to the castle 
of Flint ; and he ordained his cousin earl of Rutland to tarry still at Bristow and 
that they should be ready to set forward when he sent to them, and that he was o! 
power to fight with his enemies. The next day the king, with such as were of his 
household, rode to the castle of Flint, and entered in the castle without making 



FROISSART.] 


THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD. 


437 


any semblantto make any war, but to abide there and to defend the castle if they 
were assailed. 

The earl of Derby and the Londoners had their spies going and coming, who re¬ 
ported to them all the state of the king ; and also the earl knew it by such knights 
and squires as daily came from the king’s part to the earl, who had sure knowledge 
that the king was gone to the castle of Flint, and had no company with him but 
such as were of his own household, and seemed that he would no w r ar, but to scape 
that danger by treaty. Then the earl determined to ride thither, and to do so much 
to have the king either by force or by treaty. Then the earl and all his company 
rode thither, and w r ithin two mile of the castle they found a great village ; there 
the earl tarried and drank, and determined in himself to ride to the castle of hlint 
with two hundred horse, and to leave the rest of his company still theie : and he 
said he would do what he could by fair treaty to enter into the castle by love and 
not perforce, and to bring out the king with fair words, and to assuie him fiom all 
peril, except going to London, and to promise him that he should ha\ e no hurt of 
his body, and°to be mean for him to the Londoners, who were not content with 
him. The earl’s devise seemed good to them that heard it, and they said to him: 
Sir, beware of dissimulation ; this Richard of Bourdeaux must be taken either quick 
or dead, and all the other traitors that be about him and of his counsel, and so to 
be brought to London and set in the tower ; the Londoners will not suffer you to 
do the contrary. Then the earl said : Sirs, fear not, for all that is enterprised shall 
be accomplished ; but if I can get him out of the castle with fair words, I will do 
it ; and if I can not, I shall send you word thereof, and then ye shall come and lay 
B ieo-e about the castle, and then we will do so much by force or by assault, that we 
will have him quick or dead, for the castle is well pregnable. To those words ac¬ 
corded well the Londoners. So the earl departed from the army, and lode with 
two hundred men to the castle, where as the king was among his men right sore 
abashed The earl came riding to the castle gate, which was fast closed, as the 
case required : the earl knocked at the gate ; the porters demanded who was 
there • the earl answered, I am Henry of Lancaster ; I come to the king to demand 
mine heritage of the Duchy of Lancaster ; shew the king this from me. Sir, quoth 
they within° we shall doit. Incontinent they went into the hall and into the 
duno-eon where as the king was, and such knights about, him as had long time 
counselled him. Then these news were shewed to the king, and said : Sir, your 
cousin of Derby is at the gate, who demandeth of you to be set in possession of the 
Duchy of Lancaster his inheritance. The king then regarded such as were aoout 
him, and demanded what was best to do. They said : Sir, in this request is none 
evil * ye may let him come into you with twelve* persons in his company, and 
hear*what he will say ; he is your cousin, and a great lord of the realm ; he may 
well make your peace and he will, for he is greatly beloved in the realm, and 
specially with the Londoners, who sent for him into France ; they be as now the 
chief that be against you. Sir, ye must dissimule till the matter be appeased and 
till the earl of Huntingdon your brother be with you ; and it cometh now evi 
pass for you that he is at Calais, for there be many now in England that be i.e 
against you, that and they knew that your brother were about you, they wou si 
still and durst not displease you : and yet he hath to his wife the earl of Derby 8 
sister • by his means we suppose ye should come to peace and concord. Th, km 0 
agreed' to those words, and said: go and let him come in with twelvet with him 
and no more. Two knights went down to the gate, and opened the wicket and 
Sued out and made reverence to the earl, and received him with gracious words, 


* Eleven. 


+ Eleven. 






438 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[FROISSART. 

for they knew well that they had no force to resist them, and also they knew well 
the Londoners were sore displeased with them : therefore they spake fair, and said 
to the earl: sir, what is your pleasure ? the king is at mass ; he hath sent us 
hither to speak with you. I say, quoth the earl, ye know well I ought to have 
possession of the Duchy of Lancaster ; I am come in part for that cause, and also for 
other things that I would speak with the king of. Sir, quoth they, ye be welcome, 
the king would be g’ad to see you and to hear you, and hath commanded that ye 
come to him all only with twelve persons. The earl answered, it pleaseth me well : 
so he entered into the castle with twelve persons, and then the gate closed again, 
and the rest of his company tarried without. 

Now consider what danger the earl of Derby was in, for the king then might 
have slain him and such as were with him, as easily as a bird in a cage ; but he 
feared not the matter, but boldly went to the king, who changed colours when he 
saw the earl. Then the earl spake aloud, without mak : ng of any great honour or 
reverence, and said : Sir, are ye fasting ? The king answered and said, yea, why 
ask you ? It is time, quoth the earl, that ye had dined, for ye have a great journey 
to ride. Why, whither should I ride ? quoth the king. Ye must ride to London, 
quoth the earl, wherefore I counsel you eat and drink, that ye may ride with the 
more mirth. Then the king, w r ho was sore troubled in his mind, and in a manner 
afraid of those w T ords, said : I am not hungry ; I have no lust to eat. Then such 
as were by, who were as then glad to flatter the earl of Derby, for they saw well 
the matter was like to go diversely, said to the king : sir, believe your cousin of 
Lancaster, for he will nothing but good. Then the king said : well, I am content; 
cover the tables. Then the king washed and sat down and was served. Then 
the earl was demanded if he would sit down : he said no, for he was not fasting. 

In the mean season while the king sat at dinner, who did eat but little, his 
heart was so full that he had no lust to eat, all the country about the castle was 
full of men of war ; they within the castle might see them out of the windows, and 
the king when lie rose from the table might see them himself. Then he demanded 
of his cousin what men they were that appeared so many in the fields. The earl 
answered and said : the most part of them be Londoners. What would they have? 
quoth the king. They will have you, quoth the earl, and bring you to London, and 
put you into the Tower ; there is none other remedy, ye can scape none otherwise. 
No, quoth the king, and he was sore afraid of those words, for he knew well the 
Londoners loved him not, and said ; cousin, can ye not provide for my surety ? 

I will not gladly put me into their hands, for I know well they hate me, and have 
done long, though I be their king. Then the earl said : Sir, I see no other remedv 
but to yield yourself as my prisoner ; and when they know that ye be my prisoner 
they will do you no hurt ; but ye must so ordain you and your company to ride to 
London with me, and to be as my prisoner in the Tower of London. The king, 
who saw himself in a hard case, all his spirits were sore abashed, as he that doubted 
greatly that the Londoners would slay him. Then he yielded himself prisoner to 
the early of Derby, and bound himself, and promised to do all that he would have 
him to do. In likewise all other knights, squires, and officers yielded to the earl, 
to eschew the danger and peril that they were in : and the earl then received them 
as his prisoners, and ordained incontinent horses to be saddled and brought forth 
into the court and the gates opened, then many men of arms and archers entered ; 
then the earl of Derby caused a cry to be made ; on pain of death no man to be so 
hardy to take away any thing within the castle, nor to lay any hands upon any 
person, for all were under the earl’s safeguard and protection ; which cry was kept, 
no man durst break it. The earl had the king down into the court talking together, 
and caused all the king’s whole household and estate to go forward, as of custom 


THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD. 


439 


FROISSART.] 


they had done before, without changing or minishing of any thing. While every thing 
was a preparing, the king and the earl communed together in the court, and were 
well regarded by the Londoners ; and as it was informed me, king Richard had a 
greyhound called Mathe, who always waited upon the king, and would know no man 
else : for whensoever the king did ride, he that kept the greyhound did let him 
loose, and he would straight run to the king and fawn upon him, and leap with his 
fore-feet upon the king’s shoulders; and as the king and the earl of Derby talked 
together in the court, the greyhound, who was wont to leap upon the king, left the 
king and came to the earl of Derby, duke of Lancaster, and made to him the same 
friendly countenance and cheer as he was wont to do to the king. The duke,' who 
knew not the greyhound, demanded of the king what the greyhound would do. 
Cousin, quoth the king, it is a great good token to you, and an evil sign to me. 
Sir, how know you that 1 quoth the duke. I know it well, quoth the king : the 
greyhound maketh you cheer this day as king of England, as ye shall be, and I 
shall be deposed ; the greyhound hath this knowledge naturally ; therefore take 
him to you, he will follow you and forsake me. The duke understood well those 
words, and’cherished the greyhound, who would never after follow king Richard, 
but followed the duke of Lancaster. 


121.—THE DEPOSITION OF RICHARD. 


Froissart. 


When the duke of Lancaster had set his cousin king Richard in the Tower of 
London, and certain of his councillors, and had set sure keeping on them the first 
thino- then that the duke did, he sent for the earl of Warwick, who was banished, 
and commanded to be in the Isle of Wight, and discharged him clean thereof; and 
secondly the duke of Lancaster sent to the earl of Northumberland, and to the 
lord Percy his son, that they should come to him, and so they did : after he en¬ 
quired and sought out to have the four companions that had strangled his uncle 
the duke of Gloucester in the castle of Calais ; they were so well sought out that 
they were all taken : they were set in prison apart in London. Then the duke o 
Lancaster and his council took advice what should be done with king Richard, being 
in the Tower of London ; where as king John of France was kept, while king 
Edward went into the realm of France: then it was thought that king Richard 
should be put from all his royalty and joy that he had lived in, for they said, t e 
news of his taking should spread abroad into all realms christened ; he had been 
kin^ twenty-two year, and as then they determined to keep him m prison : en 
they regarded what cLe the realm stood in, and did put all his deeds in articles to 
the Dumber of twenty-eight. Then the duke of Lancaster and his council went to 
the Tower of London, and entered into the chamber where king Richard was, and 
reverence making to him, there was openly read all ^e sa.d articles 
to the which the king made none answer, for he saw well all was true that was 
laid to his charge, saving he said, all that I have done passed by my conned^ 
he was demanded what they were that had given counsel, and by whom he 
most ruled • he named them, in trust thereby to have been delivered himself u 
accusing of them, as he had done beforetime, trusting thereby to scape, and to 
big them in the danger and pain, but that was not the mind of hem that loved 
him not. So as at that time they spake no more but departed, and thei duke ot 

Lancaster went to his lodging, and suffered the mayor and the men <of 

coed ■ they went to the Guildhall, where as all the matters of the city were 

termined^aud then much people assembled there. When they saw the governors 







410 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [FROISSART. 

of the city go thither, they thought some justice should be done, as there was in¬ 
deed. I shall shew you how: First, the articles that were made against the king, 
the which had been read before him in the Tower, were read again there openly; 
and it was shewed by him that read them, how the king himself denied none of 
them, but confessed that he did them by the counsel of four knights of his cham¬ 
ber, and how by their counsel he had put to death the duke of Gloucester, and the 
earl of Arundel, Sir Thomas Corbet, and other, and how they had long encited the 
king to do those deeds : which deeds, they said, were not to be forgiven, but de¬ 
manded punition ; for by them and their counsel the justice of right was closed 
up through all the courts of England, Westminster, and other, whereby many evil 
deeds followed, and companies and rowts of thieves and murderers rose and assem¬ 
bled together in divers parts of the realm, and robbed merchants by the ways, and 
poor men in their houses, by which means the realm was in great peril to have 
been lost without recovery ; and it is to be imagined that finally they would have 
j’endered Calais, or Guisnes, or both, into the Frenchmen’s hands. These words 
thus shewed to the people made many to be abashed, and many began to murmur 
and said : these causes demand punition, that all other may take ensample there¬ 
by, and Richard of Bourdeaux to be deposed ; for he is not worthy to bear a crown, 
but ought to be deprived from all honour, and to be kept all his life in prison with 
bread and water. Though some of the villains murmured, other said on high : 
Sir Mayor of London, and ye other that have justice in your hands to minister, 
execute justice : for we will ye spare no man, for ye see well the case that ye have 
shewed as demandeth justice incontinent, for they are judges upon their own deeds. 
Then the mayor and other of the governors of the law went together into the 
chamber of judgment ; then these four knights were judged to die, and were judged 
to be had to the foot of the Tower, where as king Richard was, that he might see 
them drawn along by the dyke with horses each after other, through the city into 
Cheapside, and then their heads stricken off there, and set upon London bridge, and 
their bodies drawn to the gibbet, and there hanged. 

This judgment given they were delivered to execution, for the Mayor of London, 
and such as were deputed to the matter went from the Guildhall to the Tower, 
and took out the four knights of the king, whose names were called Sir Bernard 
Brokas, Sir Marclays, Master John Derby, Receiver of Lincoln, and Master Stell, 
the king’s Steward ; each of them were tied to two horses, in the presence of them 
that were in the Tower, and the king might well see it out of the windows, where¬ 
with he was sore discomforted, for all other that were there with the king looked 
to be in the same case, they knew them of London so cruel. Thus these four 
knights were drawn one after another along through the city till they came into 
Chepe, and there on a fisher’s stall their heads were stricken off and set upon Lon¬ 
don bridge, and their bodies drawn by the shoulders to the gibbet, and there hanged 
up. This justice thus done, every man went to their lodgings. King Richard 
knowing himself taken, and in the danger of the Londoners, was in great sorrow in his 
heart, and reckoned his puissance nothing : for he saw how every man was against 
him, and if there were any that ought him any favour, it lay not in their power to 
do him any aid, nor they durst not shew it. Such as were with the king said : 
Sir, we have but small trust in our lives as it may well appear ; for when your 
cousin of Lancaster came to the castle of Flint, and with your own good will ye 
yielded you to him, and he promised that you and twelve of yours should be his 
prisoners and have no hurt, and now of those twelve, four be executed shamefully, 
we are like to pass the same way ; the cause is these Londoners, who hath caused 
the duke of Lancaster your cousin to do this deed, had him so sore bound to them 
that they must do as they will have him ; God doth much for us, if he suffer that 


•FROISSART.] THE DEPOSITION OF RICHARD. 441 

we might die here our natural death, and not a shameful death ; it is great pity to 
think on this. With those words king Richard began tenderly to weep and wring 
his hands, and cursed the Hour that ever he was born, rather than to have such an 
end. Such as were about him had great pity, and recomforted him as well as they 
might. One of his knights said : Sir, it behoveth you to take comfort ; we see 
well, and so do you, that this world is nothing, the fortunes thereof are marvellous, 
and sometime turn as well upon kings and princes, as upon poor men ; the French 
king, whose daughter ye have married, can not now aid you, he is so far off; if ye 
might scape this mischief by dissimulation, and save your life and ours, it were a 
good enterprise : peradventure within a year or two there would be had some re¬ 
covery. Why, quoth the king, what would ye that I should do ? There is no¬ 
thing but I would be glad to do it, to save us thereby. Sir, quoth the knight,, we 
see for truth that these Londoners will crown your cousin of Lancaster as king, and 
for that entent they sent for him, and so have aided him and do ; it is not possible 
for you to live, without ye consent that he be crowned king : wherefore sir, we will 
counsel you, (to the entent to save your life and ours), that when your cousin of 
Lancaster cometh to you to demand any thing, then with sweet and treatable 
words say to him, how that ye will resign to him the crown of England, and all 
the right that ye have in the realm, clearly and purely into his hands, and how 
that ye will that he be king ; thereby ye shall greatly appease him and the Lon¬ 
doners also \ and desire him effectuously to suffer you to liv e and us also with you, 01 
else every man apart, as it shal please him, or else to banish us out of the realm 
for ever, for he that loseth his life, loseth all. King Richard heard those words 
well, and fixed them surely in his heart, and said he would do as they counselled 
him, as he that saw r himself in great danger: and then he said to them that kept 
him, how he would gladly speak with his cousin of Lancaster. 

It was shewed the Duke of Lancaster how Richard of Bourdeaux desired to speak 
with him. The duke in an evening took a barge and went to the Tower by water, 
and went to the king, who received him courteously, and humbled himself greatly, 
as he that saw himself in great danger, and said : Cousin of Lancaster, I regard 
and consider mine estate, which is as now but small, I tbank God theieof; as any 
more to reign or to govern people, or to bear a crown, I think it not, and as God 
help me I would I were dead by a natural death, and that the French King had 
a^ain his daughter ; we have had as yet no great joy togethei, noi sith I hi ought 
her into England, I could never have the love of my people as I had before. 
Cousin all things considered, I know well I have greatly trespassed against you, 
and against other noble men of my blood ; by divers things, I perceive I shall 
never have pardon nor come to peace, wherefore with mine own free and liberal 
will I will resign to you the heritage of the Crown of England, and I require you 
take the ffift thereof with the resignation. When the Duke heard that, he said : 
Sir it is convenient that part of the three estates of the realm be called to these 
words and I have sent already for some noble men, prelates, and councillors of the 
good towns of England, and I trust they will be here within these three days, 
sufficient of them, for you to make a due resignation before them, and by thi3 
means ye shall greatly appease many men within the realm ; for to withstand such 
enormities and evils as have been used in the realm for fault of justice, who had 
no place to reign, I was sent for from beyond the sea : and the people would crown 
me for the renome runneth throughout England, that I have more right to the 
crown than ye have ; for when our grandfather King Edward the Third did choose 
and make you king, the same was as then shewed him, but he loved so his son 
the prince, that none could break his purpose nor opinion, but that ye should be 
king ; and if ye would have followed the steps of your father the prince, and have 














442 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [FROISSART. 

believed liis counsel, as a good son ought to have done, ye might have been still 
king, and have continued your estate; but ye have always done the contrary, so 
that the common renome runneth through England, and in other places, that ye 
were never son to the Prince of Wales, but rather son to a priest or to a canon ; 
for I have heard of certain knights that were in the prince’s house, mine uncle, 
how that he knew well that his wife had not truly kept her marriage, your mother 
was cousin-german to King Edward, and the king began to hate her, because she 
could have no generation ; also she was the king’s gossip of two children at the 
font : and she that could well keep the prince in Her bandon by craft and subtlety, 
she made the prince to be her husband, and because she could have no child, she 
doubted that the prince should be divorced from her : she did so much that she 
was with child with you, and with another before you ; as of the first I cannot tell 
what to judge, but as for you because your conditions have been seen contrary 
from all nobleness and prowess of the Prince, therefore it is said that ye be rather 
son to a priest or to a canon, for when ye were gotten and born at Bordeaux, there 
were many young priests in the prince’s house. This is the bruit in this country, 
and your works have well followed the same, for ye be always enclined to the 
pleasure of the Frenchmen, and to take with them peace to the confusion and dis¬ 
honour of the realm of England. And because mine uncle of Gloucester, and the 
Earl of Arundel, did counsel you truly and faithfully to keep the honour of the 
realm, and to follow the steps of your ancestors, ye have traitorously caused them 
to die ; as for me I have taken on me to defend your life as long as I may for pity, 
and I shall pray the Londoners and the heritors of them that ye have slain and 
banished, to do the same. Cousin, I thank you, quoth the king, I trust more in 
you than in any other. It is but right that ye so should do, for if I had not been, 
ye had been taken by the people and deposed with great confusion, and slain, by 
reason of your evil works. King Richard heard well all the duke’s words, and wist 
not what to say against it, for he saw well that force nor arguments could not 
avail him, but rather meekness and humility : wherefore he humbled him, and 
prayed the duke to save his life. 

When the Duke of Lancaster had been at the Tower two hours with Ki no- 
Richard, and had shewed him part of his faults, then he returned. And the next 
day he sent forth more commandents into all parts of the realm, to cause noble 
men and other to come to London : his uncle the Duke of York came to London, 
and the Earl of Rutland his son, the Earl of Northumberland, and the Lord Thomas 
Percy his brother ; the Duke of Lancaster made them good cheer : thither came 
also great number of prelates and abbots. And on a day the Duke of Lancaster 
accompanied with lords, dukes, prelates, earls, barons, and knights, and of the 
notablest men of London, and of other good towns, rode to the Tower, and there 
alighted. Then King Richard was brought into the hall, apparelled like a king in 
his robes of state, his sceptre in his hand, and his crown on his head: then he 
stood up alone, not holden nor stayed by no man, and said aloud : I have been 
King of England, Duke of Acquitaine, and Lord of Ireland, about twenty-two years 
which signiory, royalty, sceptre, crown, and heritage, I clearly resign here to my 
cousin, Henry of Lancaster: and I desire him here in this open presence, in 
entering of the same possession, to take this sceptre : and so delivered it to the 
duke, who took it. Then King Richard took the crown from his head with both 
his hands, and set it before him, and said : Fair cousin, Henry Duke of Lancaster 
I give and deliver you this crown, wherewith I was crowned King of England, and 
therewith all the right thereto depending. The Duke of Lancaster took it, and 
the Archbishop of Canterbury took it out of the duke’s hands. This resignation 
thus done, the Duke of Lancaster called a notary, and demanded to have letters 



THE DEPOSITION OF RICHARD. 


FROISSART.] 


443 


and witness of all the prelates and lords there being present. Then Richard of 
Bordeaux returned again into the chamber from whence he came. Then the Duke 
of Lancaster and all other leapt on their horses, and the crown and sceptre were 
put in a coffer, and conveyed to the Abbey of Westminster, and there kept in the 
treasury. And every man went to their lodgings, and abode till the day of Parlia¬ 
ment and council should be at the Palace of Westminster. 


122.—EXETER’S CONSPIRACY AGAINST HENRY IV. ' 

Hall. 

At this time was an abbot in Westminster, a man of apparent virtues, profess¬ 
ing openly Christ, Christian charity, and due subjection and obeisance to his prince; 
which abbot hearing king Henry once say, when he was but earl of Derby, and of 
no mature age, or grown gravity, that princes had too little, and religious had too 
much, imagined in himself that he now obtaining the crown of the realm, if he were 
therein a long continuer, would remove the great beam that then grieved his eyes 
and pricked his conscience. For you must understand that these monastical per¬ 
sons, learned and unliterate, better fed than taught, took on them to write and 
register in the book of fame, the noble acts, the wise doings and politic governances 
of kings and princes, in which cronography, if a king gave to them possessions or 
granted them liberties, or exalted them to honour and worldly dignity, he was called 
a saint, he was praised without any desert above the moon, his genealogy was 
written, and not one iota that might exalt his fame, was either forgotten or omitted. 
But if a Christian prince had touched their liberties, or claimed any part justly of 
their possessions, or would have intermitted in their holy franchises, or desired aid 
of them against his and their common enemies. Then tongues talked and pens 
wrote, that he was a tyrant, a depresser of holy religion, an enemy to Christ’s 
church and his holy flock, and a damned and accursed person with Dathan and 
Abiron to the deep pit of hell. Whereof the proverb began, give and be blessed, 
take away and be accursed. Thus the fear of losing their possessions, made them 
pay yearly annates to the Romish bishop : thus the fear of correction and honest 
restraint of liberty, made them from their ordinaries, yea almost from obedience of 
their princes, to sue dispensations, exemptions and immunities. 

This abbot that I spake of which could not well forget the saying of king Henry, 
and being before in great favour and high estimation with king Richard, called to 
his house on a day in the term season, all such lords and other persons which he 
either knew or thought to be as affectionate to king Richard, and envious to tho 
estate and advancement of king Henry, whose names were. John Holland, duke of 
Exeter and earl of Huntingdon, Thomas Holland, duke of Surrey and carl of Kent, 
Edward, duke of Aumerle and earl of Rutland, son to the duke of York, John 
Montague, earl of Salisbury, Hugh Spenser, earl of Gloucester, John, the bishop of 
Carlisle, Sir Thomas Blount, and Magdelen, one of king Richard’s chapel, a man as 
like to him in stature and proportion in all lineaments of his body, as unlike in 
birth, dignity, or conditions. This abbot highly feasted these great lords and his 
special friends, and when they had well dined, they all withdrew themselves into a 
secret chamber and sat down to council; when they were set, John Holland, duke 
of Exeter, whose rage of revenging the injury done to king Richard was nothing 
mitigate nor molified, but rather encreased and blossomed, declared to them their 
allegiance promised, and by oath confirmed to king Richard liis brother, forgetting 
not the high promotions and notable dignities which he and all other there present 
; had obtained by the high favour and munificent liberality of his said brother, by 









444 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HALL 

the which they were not only by oath and allegiance bound, and also by kindness 
and urbanity incensed and moved to take part with him and his friends, but also 
bound to be revenged for him and his cause, on his mortal enemies and deadly foes, 
in which doing he thought policy more meeter to be used than force, and some 
witty practise rather to be experimented than manifest hostility or open war. And 
for the expedition of this enterprise he devised a solemn justes to be enterprised 
between him and twenty on his part, and the earl of Salisbury and twenty on his 
part, at Oxford: to the which triumph, king Henry should be invited and desired, 
and when he were most busily regarding the martial play and warly disport, he 
suddenly should be slain and destroyed. And by this means king Richard, which 
was yet alive, should be restored to his liberty and repossessed of his crown and 
kingdom, and appointed farther who should assemble the people, the number and 
persons, which should accomplish and perform this invented assay and policy. 

This device so much pleased the seditious congregation, that they not only made 
an indenture sextipartite sealed with their seals and signed with their hands, in the 
which each bound himself to other to endeavour themselves both for the destruc¬ 
tion of king Henry, and the creation of king Richard, but also sware on the Holy 
Evangelists the one to be true and secret to the other, even to the hour and point 
of death. When all things were thus appointed and concluded, the duke of Exeter 
came to the king to Windsor, requiring him, for the love that he bare to the noble 
acts of chivalry, that he would vouchsafe not only to repair to Oxford to see and 
behold their manly feats, and warlike pastime : but also to be the discoverer and 
indifferent judge (if any ambiguity should arise) of their courageous acts and royal 
triumph. The king seeing himself so effectuously desired, and that of his brother- 
in-law, and nothing less imagining than that which was pretended, gently granted 
and friendly condescended to his request. Which thing obtained, all the lords of 
this conspiracy departed to their houses (as they noised) to set armourers on work 
for trimming of their harness against the solemn justes. Some had the helm, the 
viser, the two baviers and the two plackards of the same, curiously graven and 
cunningly costed : some had their collars fretted, and other had them set with gilt 
bullions: one company had the plackard, the rest, the hurley, the tasses, the lamboys, 
the backpiece, the tapul, and the border of the cuirass all gilt : and another band 
had them all enameled azure. One sort had the vambraces, the paceguards, the 
grandguards, the poldren, the pollettes, parted with gold and azure : and another 
flock had them silver and sable. Some had the mainfers, the close gauntlets, the 
guissettcs, the flamards, dropped and gutted with red, and other had them speckled 
with green : one sort had the cuisses, the greaves, the surlettes, the sockets on the 
right side and on the left side silver. Some had the spear, the bur, the cronet, all 
yellow, and other had them of divers colours. One band had the scafferon, the 
cranet, the bard of the horse, all white, and other had them all gilt. Some had 
their arming swords freshly burnished, and some had them cunningly varnished ; 
some spurs were white, some gilt, and some coal black. One part had their plumes 
all white, another had them all red, and the third had them of several colours. 
One woie on his headpiece his lady’s sleeve, and another bare on his helm the 
glove of his dearling: but to declare the costly bases, the rich bards, the pleasant 
trappers both of goldsmith’s work and embroidery, no less sumptuously than 
curiously wrought, it would ask a long time to declare, for every man after his appe¬ 
tite devised his fantasy, verifying the old proverb, so many heads, so many wits. 

The Duke of Exeter came to his house and raised men on every side, and pre¬ 
pared horse and harness, meet and apt for his compassed purpose. When the 
Duchess his wife which was sister to King Henry perceived this, she no 
less trouble conjectured to be prepared against her brother than was indeed 


exeter’s conspiracy against HENRY IV. 


445 


HALL.] 

eminent and at hand, wherefore she wept and made groat lamentation. When the 
Duke perceived her dolour, he said, “ What, Bess, how chanceth this ? when my 
brother King Richard was deposed of his dignity, and committed to hard and 
sharp prison which had been king and ruled this realm nobly by the space of 
twenty-two years, and your brother was exalted to the throne and dignity imperial 
of the same, then my heart was heavy, my life stood in jeopardy, and my comb 
was clearly cut, but you then rejoiced, laughed, and triumphed, wherefore I pray 
you be content that I may as well rejoice and have pleasure at the delivering and 
restoring of my brother justly to his dignity, as you were jocund and pleasant 
w r hen your brother unjustly and untruly deprived and disseized my brother of the 
same. For of this I am sure, that if my brother prosper, you and I shall not fall 
nor decline : but if your brother continue in his estate and magnificence, I doubt 
not your decay nor mine, but I suspect the loss of my life, beside the forfeiture of 
my lands and goods.” When he had said, he kissed his lady which was sorrowful 
and pensive, and he departed toward Oxford with a great company both of archers 
and horsemen, and when he came there, he found ready all his mates and confede¬ 
rates well appointed for their purpose, except the Duke of Aumerle, Earl of Rut¬ 
land, for whom they sent messengers in great haste. This Duke of Aumerle went 
before from Westminster to see his father the Duke of York, and sitting at dinner 
had his counpane of the endenture of the confederacy, whereof I spake before, in 
his bosom. 

The father espied it and demanded what it was ; his son lowly and benignly 
answered that it might not be seen, and that it touched not him. ‘ By Saint 
George,’ quoth the father, I will see it, and so by force took it out of his bosom, 
when he perceived the content and the six signs and seals set and fixed to the 
same, whereof the seal of his son w T as one, he suddenly rose from the table, com¬ 
manding his horses to be saddled, and in a great fury said to his son, thou traitor thief, 
thou hast been a traitor to King Richard, and wilt thou now be false to thy cousin 
King Henry ? Thou knowest well enough that I am thy pledge, borrow, and main¬ 
pernor, body for body, and land for goods in open parliament, and goest thou about to 
seek my death and destruction ? by the Holy Rood, I had leifer see thee sti angled 
on a gibbet. And so the Duke of York mounted on horseback to ride towards 
Windsor to the King, and to declare the whole effect of his son and his adherents 
and partakers. The Duke of Aumerle seeing in what case he stood took his hoise 
and rode another way to Windsor, riding in post thither, (which his father being 
an old man could not do.) And when he was alighted at the castle gate, he caused 
the gates to be shut, saying that he must needs deliver the keys to the King. 
When he came before the King’s presence he kneeled down on his knees, beseeching 
him of mercy and forgiveness. The King demanded the cause : then he declared 
to him plainly the whole confederacy and entire conjuration in manner and foim 
as you have heard. Well, said the King, if this be true we pardon you, if it 
be fained at your extreme peril be it. While the King and the Duke talked 
together, the Duke of York knocked at the castle gate, whom the King caused to be 
let in, and there he delivered the endenture which before was taken from his son, 
into the King’s hands. Which writing when he had read, and seen, perceiving the 
signs and seals of the confederates, he changed his former purpose. For the day 
before he hearing say that the challengers were all ready and that the defenders 
were come to do their devoir, purposed to have departed toward the triumph the 
next day, but by his prudent and forecasting counsel, somewhat stayed till he 
might see the a'r clear and no dark cloud near to the place where the lists were. 
And now being advertised of the truth and verity, how his destruction and death 
was compassed, was not a little vexed, but with a great and merciless agony per- 






446 


HALF-HOURS OF ^r.GLISH HISTORY. 


[HALL. 


turbed and unquieted, and therefore determined there to make his abode not having 
time to look and gaze on justes and tourneys, but to take heed how to keep and 
conserve his life and dignity, and in that place tarried till he knew what way his 
enemies would set forward ; and shortly wrote to the Earl of Northumberland his 
High Constable, and to the Earl of Westmoreland his High Marshal, and to other 
his assured friends of all the doubtful danger and perilous jeopardy. The conju- 
rators perceiving by the lack of the Duke of Aumerle’s coming, and also seeing no 
preparation made there for the King’s coming, imagined with themselves that their 
enterprise was intimate and published to the King. Wherefore that thing which 
they attempted privily to do, now openly with spear and shield they determined 
with all diligent celerity to set forth and advance. And so they adorned Magdalene, 
a man resembling much King Richard, in royal and princely vesture, calling him 
King Richard, affirming that he by favour of his keepers was delivered out of prison 
and set at liberty, and they followed in a quadrat array to the extent to destroy 
King Henry as the most pernicious and venomous enemy to them and his 
own natural country. While the confederates with this new published idol accom¬ 
panied with a puissant army of men, took the direct way and passage towards 
Windsor, King Henry being admonished of their approaching, with a few horse in 
the night, came to the Tower of London about twelve of the clock, where he in the 
morning caused the Mayor of the city to apparel in armour the best and most 
courageous persons of the city, which brought to him three thousand archers and 
three thousand billmen, beside them that were deputed to defend the city. 

The lords of the confederacy entered the Castle of Windsor, where they finding 
not their prey, determined with all speed to pass forth to London. But in the 
way, changing their purpose they returned to the town of Colbrook, and there 
tarried. These lords had much people following them, what for fear and what for 
entreaty, surely believing that king Richard was there present and in company. 
King Henry issued out of London with twenty thousand men, and came to Houns¬ 
low Heath, where he pitched his camp, abiding the coming of his enemies : but 
when they were advertised of the king’s puissance, or else amazed with fear, or 
forethinking and repenting their bygone baseness, or mistrusting their own com¬ 
pany and fellows, departed from thence to Berkhamstead, and so to Chichester, and 
there the lords took their lodging : The duke of Surrey, earl of Kent, and the earl 
of Salisbury in one inn, and the duke of Exeter, and the earl of Gloucester in an¬ 
other, and all the host lay in the fields. The Bailey of the town, with four score 
archers, set on the house where the duke of Surrey and other lay : the house was 
manly assaulted and strongly defended a great space. The duke of Exeter being in an¬ 
other inn with the earl of Gloucester, set fire on divers houses in the town, thinking 
that the assailants would leave their assault and rescue their goods, which thing 
they nothing regarded. The host lying without hearing noise and seeing fire in the 
town, believing that the king was come thither with his puissance, fled without 
measure to save themselves. The duke of Exeter and his company seeing the 
force of the townsmen more and more encrease, fled out of the backside entending 
to repair to the army, which they found dispersed and retired. Then the duke 
seeing no hope of comfort, fled into Essex, and the earl of Gloucester going toward 
Wales was taken and beheaded at Bristow. Magdalene flying into Scotland, was 
apprehended and brought to the tower. The lords which fought still in the town 
of Chichester were wounded to death, and taken, and their heads stricken oft’ and 
sent to London : and there were taken Sir Bennet Shelley or Cell, and Sir Barnard 
Brokas, and twenty-nine other lords, knights, and esquires, and sent to Oxford, 
where the king then sojourned, where Sir Thomas Blount and all the other prisoners 
were executed. When the duke of Exeter heard that his complices were taken, 


si h 

HALL.] EXETER’S CONSPIRACY AGAINST HENRY IV. 4^7 

and his counsellors apprehended, and his friends and allies put in execution, he 
lamented his own chance, and bewept the misfortune of his friends, but most of 
all bewailed the fatal end of his brother king Richard, whose death he saw as in a 
mirror by his unhappy sedition and malicious attempt to approach, and so wander¬ 
ing, lurking and hiding himself in privy places, was attacked in Essex, and in the 
lordship of Plasshey, a town of the duchess of Gloucester, and there made shorter 
by the head, and in that place especially, because that he in the same lordship 
seduced and falsely betrayed Thomas duke of Gloucester, and was the very onward 
actor and open dissimulor of his death and destruction. So the common proverb 
was verified, as you have done so shall you feel. s 


123.—THE REVOLT OF THE PERCIES. 

Shakspere. 

[Holinshed thus describes the origin of the quarrel between the Percies and the king:— 

“ Henry, Earl of Northumberland, with his brother Thomas, Earl of Worcester, and his 
son, the Lord Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, which were to King Henry, in the beginning 
of his reign, both faithful friends, and earnest aiders, began now to envy his wealth and feli¬ 
city ; and especially they were grieved, because the lung demanded of the carl and his son 
such Scottish prisoners as were taken at Homeldon and Nesbit: for ol all the captives which 
were taken in the conflicts fought in those two places, there was delivered to the king’s pos¬ 
session only Mordake, Earl of Fife, the Duke of Albany’s son, though the king did divers and 
sundry times require the deliverance of the residue, and that with great threatenings : where¬ 
with the Percies being sore offended, for that they claimed them as their own proper prisoners, 
and their peculiar prizes, by the council of the Lord Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester, whose 
study was ever (as some write) to procure malice, and set things in a broil, came to the king 
unto Windsor (upon a purpose to prove him), and there required of him, that either by 
ransom or otherwise, he would cause to be delivered out of prison Edmund Mortimer, Earl 
of March, their cousin german, whom (as they reported) Owen Glendower kept in filthy 
prison, slift-cklcd witii irons, only for tliEt ho took liis port, B.nd was to lnm fsithfnl find. tiuo. 

* * * “The king, when he had studied on the matter, made answer, that the 

Earl of March was not taken prisoner for his cause, nor in his service, but willingly suffered 
himself to be taken, because he would not withstand the attempts of Owen Glendower and 
his complices, therefore he would neither ransom him nor release him. 

“ The Percies with this answer and fraudulent excuse were not a little filmed, insomuch 
that Henry Hotspur said openly: Behold, the heir of the realm is robbed of his right, and 
vet the robber with his own will not redeem him. So in this fury the Percies departed, 
V minding nothing more than to depose King Henry from the high type of his royalty, and to 
f, place in his seat their cousin Edmund, Earl of March, whom they did not only deliver out of 
captivity, but also (to the high displeasure of King Henry) entered in league with the foresaid 

Owen Glendower.” . . , 

The refusal of Henry IV. to ransom Mortimer, or to allow him to be ransomed, proceeded 

from a not unnatural jealousy; but the prisoner of Glendower was Dot “the heir of the 
realm,” as Holinshed represents, but Sir Edmund Mortimer, the uncle ot the young Earl of 
March whom Henry kept in close custody, because he had a prior claim to the crown by suc¬ 
cession. Sir Edmund Mortimer was the “ brother-in-law” to Hotspur, who had married Ins 
sister. ' Shakspere has, of course, followed Holinshed in confounding Sir Edmund Mortimer 
with the Earl of March but those from whom accuracy is required, have fallen into the 
same error as the old Chronicler,—amongst others Rapin and Hume. A despatch of the 
king to his council states, “The rebels have taken my beloved cousin, Esmon Mortymer.” 
Edmund, Earl of March, was at this period only ten years old, and a state prisoner. 

The Earl of Westmoreland, who appears throughout this play as one of the most taithlul 
’ ] adherents of the king, was a partisan of Boling broke from his first landing. He was sub¬ 
sequently actively engaged in suppressing the insurrection in Yorkshire.,] 



HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE. 


418 


SCENE. — King Henry , Northumberland , Worcester, Hotspur, Sir Walter Blunt , 

and others. 

K. Hen. My blood hath been too cold and temperate, 

Unapt to stir at these indignities, 

And you have found me ; for, accordingly, 

You tread upon my patience : but, be sure, 

I will from henceforth rather be myself 
Mighty, and to be fear'd, than my condition ; 

Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down, 

And therefore lost that title of respect 

Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the proud. 

Wor. Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves 
The scourge of greatness to be used on it; 

And that same greatness too which our own hands 
Have holp to make so portly. 

North. My lord,— 

K. Hen. Worcester, get thee gone, for I do see 
Danger and disobedience in thine eye : 

0, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory, 

And majesty might never yet endure 
The moody frontier of a servant brow. 

You have good leave to leave us ; when we need 

Your use and counsel we shall send for you.— [ Exit Wor. 

You were about to speak. To North., 

North. Yea, my good lord. 

Those prisoners in your highness’ name demanded, 

Which Harry Percy here at IPolmedon took, 

Were, as he says, not with such strength denied 
As was deliver’d to your majesty : 

Either envy, therefore, or misprision, 

Is guilty of this fault, and not my son. 

Hot.. My liege, I did deny no prisoners. 

But, I remember when the fight was done, 

When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, 

Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, 

Came there a certain lord, neat and trimly dress’d, 

Fresh as a bridegroom ; and his chin, new reap’d, 

Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home ; 

He was perfumed like a milliner ; 

And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held 
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon 
He gave his nose, and took’t away again ; 

Who, therewith angry, when it next came there, 

Took it in snuff: and still he smil’d and talked ; 

And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by 
He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly 
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse 
Betwixt the wind and his nobility. 

With many holiday and lady terms 
He question’d me ; among the rest, demanded 
My prisoners, in your majesty’s behalf. 





THE REVOLT OF THE PERCIES. 


419 


6HASSPERE.] 

I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold, 

To be so pester’d with a popinjay, 

Out of my grief and my impatience 
Answer’d neglectingly, I know not what; 

He should, or should not ;—for he made me mad, 

To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, 

And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman 
Of guns, and drums, and wounds, (God save the mark!) 
And telling me, the sovereign’st thing on earth 
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise ; 

And that it was great pity, so it was, 

That villainous saltpetre should be digg’d 
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, 

Which many a good tall fellow hath destroy’d 
So cowardly ; and but for these vile guns 
He would himself have been a soldier. 

This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord, 

I answer’d indirectly, as I said ; 

And, I beseech you, let not this report 
Come current for an accusation, 

Betwixt my love and your high majesty. 

Blunt. The circumstance consider’d, good my lord, 
Whatever Harry Percy then had said 
To such a person, and in such a place, 

At such a time, with all the rest re-told, 

May reasonably die, and never rise 
To do him wrong, or any way impeach 
What then he said, so he unsay it now. 

K. Hen. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners; 

But with proviso, and exception, 

That we, at our own charge, shall ransom straight 
His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer ; 

Who, in my soul, hath wilfully betray’d 
The lives of those that he did lead to fight 
Against the great magician, damn’d Glendower ; 

Whose daughter, as we hear, the earl of March 
Hath lately married. Shall our coffers then 
Be emptied, to redeem a. traitor home 1 
Shall we buy treason ? and indent with feres, 

When they have lost and forfeited themselves ? 

No, on the barren mountains let him starve; 

For I shall never hold that man my friend 
Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost 
To ransom home revolted Mortimer. 

Hot. Revolted Mortimer! 

He never did fall off, my sovereign liege, 

But by the chance of war ;—To prove that true 
Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds, 
Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took, 

WTien on the gentle Severn’s sedgy bank, 

In single opposition, hand to hand, 

He did confound the best part of an hour 






450 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[sharsperi 


In changing hardiment with great Glendower : 

Three times they breath’d, and three times did they drink, 

Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood ; 

Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, 

Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds, 

And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank 
Blood-stained with these valiant combatants. 

Never did base and rotten policy 

Colour her working with such deadly wounds ; 

Nor never could the noble Mortimer 
Receive so many, and all willingly : 

Then let him not be slander’d with revolt. 

K. Hen. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie him ; 

He never did encounter with Glendower. 

I tell thee, 

He durst as well have met the devil alone, 

As Owen Glendower for an enemy. 

Art thou not asham’d 1 But, sirrah, henceforth 
Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer : 

Send me your prisoners with the speediest means, 

Or you shall hear in such a kind from me 
As will displease you.—My lord Northumberland, 

We license your departure with your son :— 

Send us your prisoners, or you’ll hear of it. 

\Exeunt King Henry , blunt and Train. 
Hot. And if the devil come and roar for them, 

I will not send them :—I will after straight, 

And tell him so ; for I will ease my heart, 

Although it be with hazard of my head. 

North. What, drunk with choler ? stay, and pause awhile ; 

Here comes your uncle. 

Be-enter Worcester. 

Hot. Speak of Mortimer ? 

’Zounds, I will speak of him; and let my soul 
Want mercy, if I do not join with him : 

In his behalf I’ll empty all these veins, 

And shed my dear blood drop by drop i’ the dust, 

But I will lift the down-trod Mortimer 
As high i’ the air as this unthankful king, 

As this ingrate and canker’d Bolingbroke. 

North. Brother, the king hath made your nephew mad. 

To Worcester. 

Wor. Who struck this heat up, after I was gone ? 

Hot. He will, forsooth, have all n.y prisoners ; 

And when I urg’d the ransom once again 

Of my wife’s brother, thm his cheek look’d pale ; 

And on m3 face he turn’d an eye of death, 

Trembling even at the name of Mortimer. 

Wor. I cannot blame him : Was he not proclaim’d, 

By Richard that dead is, the next of blood ? 

North. He was : I heard the proclamation ; 


THE REVOLT OF THE FERCIES. 


451 


UHAKSPERE.] 

And then it was, when the unhappy king 
(Whose wrongs in us God pardon !) did set forth 
Upon his Irish expedition ; 

From whence he, intercepted, did return 
To be depos’d, and shortly murthered. 

T Vor. And for whose death, we in the world’s wide mouth 
Live scandaliz’d, and foully spoken of. 

Hot. But, soft, I pray you ; Did king Richard then 
Proclaim my brother Mortimer 
Heir to the crown 1 

North. He did ; myself did hear it. 

Hot. Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king, 

That wish’d him on the barren mountains starv’d. 

But shall it be that you, that set the crown 
Upon the head of this forgetful man, 

And, for his sake, weai the detested blot 
Of murtherous subornation, shall it be, 

That you a world of curses undergo, 

Being the agents, or base second means, 

The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather \ 

O, pardon, if that I descend so low, 

To show the line and the predicament 
Wherein you range under this subtle king. 

Shall it, for shame, be spoken in these days. 

Or fill up chronicles in time to come, 

That men of your nobility and power 
Did ’gage them both in an unjust behalf,— 

As both of you, God pardon it! have done— 

To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose, 

And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke ? 

And shall it, in more shame, be further spoken, 

That you arc fool’d, discarded, and shook off 
By him for whom these shames ye underwent ? 

No ; yet time serves, wherein you may redeem 
Your banish’d honours, and restore yourselves 
Into the good thoughts of the world again : 

Revenge the jeering and disdain’d contempt 
Of this proud king ; who studies day and night, 

To answer all the debt he owes unto you, 

Even with the bloody payment of your deaths. 

Therefore, I say,- 

11 or. Peace, cousin, say no more ; 

And now I will unclasp a secret book, 

And to your quick-conceiving discontents 
I’ll read you matter deep and dangerous, 

As full of peril, and adventurous spirit, 

As to o’er-walk a current, roaring loud, 

On the unstead fast footing of a spear. 

Hot. If he fall in, good night ;—or sink or swim : - 
Send danger from the east unto the west, 

So honour cross it from the north to south, 









452 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SIIAKSrER*. 


And let them grapple ;—the blood more stirs 
To rouse a lion than to start a hare. 

North. Imagination of some great exploit 
Drives him beyond the bounds of patience. 

Hot. By heaven, methinks, it were an easy leap 
To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac’d moon ; 

Or dive into the bottom of the deep, 

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground, 

And pluck up drowned honour by the locks ; 

So he, that doth redeem her thence, might wear, 

Without corrival, all her dignities : 

But out upon this half-fac’d fellowship ! 

Wor. He apprehends a world of figures here, 

But not the form of what he should attend.— 

Good cousin, give me audience for a while, 

And list to me. 

Hot. I cry you mercy. 

Wor. The same noble Scots, 

That are your prisoners,- 

Hot. I’ll keep them all: 

By heaven, he shall not have a Scot of them ; 

No, if a Scot would save his soul he shall not : 

I’ll keep them, by this hand. 

Wor. You start away, 

And lend no ear unto my purposes.— 

Those prisoners you shall keep. 

Hot. Nay, I will ; that’s fiat:— 

lie said he would not ransom Mortimer ; 

Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer ; 

But I will find him when he lies asleep, 

And in his ear I’ll holla—Mortimer ! 

Nay, I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak 
Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him 
To keep his anger still in motion. 

Wor. Hear you, cousin ; a word. 

Hot. All studies here I solemnly defy, 

Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke : 

And that same sword-ancl-buckler prince of Wales, 

But that I think his father loves him not, 

And would be glad he met with some mischance, 

I’d have him poison’d with a pot of ale. 

Wor. Farewell, kinsman ! I will talk to you, 

When you are better temper’d to attend. 

North. Why, what a wasp-tongued and impatient fool 
Art thou, to break into this woman’s mood ; 

Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own ! 

Hot. Why, look you, I am whipp’d and scourg’d with rods. 
Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear 
Of this vil* politician, Bolingbroke. 

In Richard’s time,—What d’ ye call the place ?—- 
A plague upon’t—it is in Gloucestershire ;— 



EHAltSPERE.] THE REVOLT OF THE PERCIES. 

’T was where tlie madcap duke his uncle kept; 

His uncle York ;—where I first bow’d my knee 
Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke, 

When you and he came back from Bavenspurg. 

North. At Berkley castle. 

Hot. You say true :- 

Why, what a candy deal of courtesy 

This fawning greyhound then did proffer me ! 

Look,—“ when his infant fortune came to age,” 

And,—“ gentle Harry Percy,”—and, “ kind cousin,”— 

O, the devil take such cozeners !-God forgive me ?- 

Good uncle, tell your tale, for I have done. 

Wor. Nay, if you have not, to’t again 
We ’ll stay your leisure. 

Hot. I have done, in sooth. 

Wor. Then once more to your Scottish prisoners. 
Deliver them up without their ransom straight, 

And make the Douglas’ son your only mean 
For powers in Scotland ; which, for divers reasons, 

Which I shall send you written, be assur’d, 

Will easily be granted.—You, my lord, 

Your son in Scotland being thus employ’d, 

Shall secretly into the bosom creep 
Of that same noble prelate, well belov’d, 

The archbishop. 

Hot. Of York, is’t not 1 

Wor. True ; who bears hard 

His brother’s death at Bristol, the lord Scroop. 

I speak not this in estimation 

As what I think might be, but wbat I know 

Is ruminated, plotted, and set down ; 

And only stays but to benold the face 
Of that occasion that shall bring it on. 

Hot. I smell it. 

Upon my life it will do wond’rous well. 

North. Before the game’s a-foot thou still lett’st slip. 
Hot. Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot :— 
And then the power of Scotland and of York,— 

To join with Mortimer, ha ? 

Wor. And so they shall. 

Hot. In faith, it is exceedingly well aim’d. 

Wor. And’t is no little reason bids us speed, 

To save our heads by raising of a head : 

For, bear ourselves as even as we can, 

The king will always think him in our debt ; 

And think we think ourselves unsatisfied, 

Till he hath found a time to pay us home. 

And see already, how he doth begin 
To make us strangers to his looks of love. 

Hot. He does, he does ; we ’ll be reveng’d on him. 

Wor. Cousin, farewell;—No further go in this, 

Than I by letters shall direct your course, 



[ To North . 








[SHAKSPERE. 


45 & HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 

When time is ripe, which will he suddenly. 

I ’ll steal to Glendower, and lord Mortimer ; 

Where you and Douglas, and our powers at once, 

(As I will fashion it,) shall happily meet, 

To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms, 

Which now we hold at much uncertainty. 

North. Farewell, good brother; we shall thrive, I trust. 

Hot. Uncle, adieu :—0, let the hours be short, 

Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport! [Exeunt. 


124.—THE BATTLE OF SHREWSBURY. 

Shakspere. 

[“ King Henry,” says Holinshed, “advertised of the proceedings of the Percies, forthwith 
gathered about him such power as he might make, and passed forward with such speed that 
he was in sight of his enemies lying in camp near to Shrewsbury before they were in doubt 
of any such thing.” The Percies, according to the Chronicler, sent to the king the celebrated 
manifesto which is contained in Hardyng’s Chronicle. The interview of Worcester with the 
king, and its result, are thus described by Holinshed: “ It was reported for a truth that now 
when the king had condescended unto all that was reasonable at his hands to be required, 
and seemed to humble himself more than was meet for his estate, the Earl of Worcester, 
upon his return to his nephew, made reation clean contrary to that the king had said: ”— 

“ 0, no, my nephew must not know, Sir Richard,— 

The liberal kind offer of the lung.” 

In the Chroniclers, Hotspur exhorts the troops; Shakspere clothes the exhortation with his 
own poetical spirit. 

“ Now, Esperance!—Percy!—and set on,” 

is found in the Chroniclers :—“ The adversaries cried Esperance Percy." The danger of the 
king, and the circumstance of others being caparisoned like him, are also mentioned by 
Holinshed. 

The prowess of Prince Henry in this his first great battle is thus described by Holinshed : 
“The Prince that day holp his father like a lusty young gentleman, for although he was hurt 
in the face with an arrow, so that divers noble men that were about him would have conveyed 
him forth of the field, yet he would in no wise suffer them so to do, lest his departure from 
his men might haply have stiicken some fear into their hearts ; and so, -without regard of 
his hurt, he continued with his men, and never ceased, either to fight where the battle was 
most hottest, or to encourage his men where it seemed most need.” 

The personal triumph of Henry over Hotspur is a dramatic creation, perfectly warranted 
by the obscurity in which the Chroniclers leave the matter.] 

Scene. —King Henry, Prince Henry , Prince John of Lancaster , Sir Walter 

Blunt, and Sir John Falstaff. 

K. Hen. How bloodily the sun begins to peer 
Above yon busky hill! the day looks pale 
At his distemperature. 

P. Hen. The southern wind 

Doth play the trumpet to his purposes ; 

And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, 

Foretells a tempest and a blustering day. 

K. Hen. Then with the losers let it sympathise ; 

For nothing can seem foul to those that win. 

Trumpet. Enter Worcester and Vernon. 

How now, my lord of Worcester ] ’t is not well, 




BHAKSPERE.] THE BATTLE OF SHREWSBURY. 455 

That you and I should meet upon such terms 
As now we meet: You have deceiv’d our trust ; 

And made us doff our easy robes of peace, 

To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel: 

This is not well, my lord, this is not well. 

What say you to it ? will you again unknit 
This churlish knot of all-abhorred war 1 
And move in that obedient orb again, 

Where you did give a fair and natural light; 

And be no more an exhal’d meteor, v 

A prodigy of fear, and a portent 
Of broached mischief to the unborn times ? 

Wor. Hear me, my liege • 

For mine own part I could be well content 
To entertain the lag end of my life 
With quiet hours ; for, I do protest, 

I have not sought the day of this dislike. 

K. Hen. You have not sought it ! how comes it then ? 

Fal. Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it. 

P. Hen. Peace, chewct, peace. 

TFor. It pleas’d your majesty to turn your looks 
Of favour from myself, and all our house ; 

And yet I must remember you, my lord, 

We were the first and dearest of your friends. 

For you, my staff of office did I break 
In Richard’s time ; and posted day and night 
To meet you on the way, and kiss your hand, 

When yet you were in place and in account 
Nothing so strong and fortunate as I. 

It was myself, my brother, and his son, 

That brought you home, and boldly did outdare 
The danger of the time : You swore to us,— 

And you did swear that oath at Doncaster,— 

That you did nothing purpose ’gainst the state ; 

Nor claim no further than your new-fall’n right, 

The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster : 

To this we sware our aid. But, in short space, 

It rain’d down fortune showering on your head ; 

And such a flood of greatness fell on you,— 

What with cur help ; what with the absent king ; 

What with the injuries of a wanton time ; 

The seeming sufferances that you had borne ; 

And the contrarious winds, that held the king 
So long in his unlucky Irish wars, 

That all in England did repute him dead,— 

And, from this swarm of fair advantages, 

You took occasion to be quickly woo’d 
To gripe the general sway into your hand ; 

Forgot your oath to us at Doncaster ; 

And, being fed by us, you used us so 
As that ungentle gull the cuckoo’s bird 
Useth the sparrow ; did oppress our nest; 




456 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERB. 


Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk, 

That even our love durst not come near your sight, 

For fear of swallowing ; but with nimble wing 
We were enforc’d, for safety sake, to fly 
Out of your sight, and raise this present head 
Whereby we stand opposed by such means 
As you yourself have forg’d against yourself; 

By unkind usage, dangerous countenance, 

And violation of all faith and troth 
Sworn to us in your younger enterprise. 

K. Hen. These things, indeed, you have articulated, 

Proclaim’d at market-crosses, read in churches, 

To face the garment of .rebellion 

With some fine colour, that may please the eye 

Of fickle changelings and poor discontents, 

Which gape, and rub the elbow, at the news 
Of hurlyburly innovation : 

And never yet did insurrection want 
Such water-colours to impaint his cause ; 

Nor moody beggars, starving for a time 
Of pellmell havoc and confusion. 

P. Hen. In both our armies there is many a soul 
Shall pay full dearly for this encounter, 

If once they join in trial. Tell your nephew, 

The prince of Wales doth join with all the world 
In praise of Henry Percy : By my hopes,— 

This present enterprise set off his head,— 

I do not think a braver gentleman, 

More active-valiant, or more valiant-young, 

More daring, or more bold, is now alive, 

To grace this latter age with noble deeds. 

For my part, I may speak it to my shame, 

I have a truant been to chivalry; 

And so, I hear, he doth account me too : 

Yet this before my father’s majesty,— 

I am content that he shall take the odds 
Of his great name and estimation ; 

And will, to save the blood on either side, 

Try fortune with him in a single fight. 

K. Hen. And, prince of Wales, so dare we venture thee, 

Albeit considerations infinite 

Do make against it:—No, good Worcester, no, 

We love our people well ; even those we love 
That are misled upon your cousin’s part : 

And, will they take the offer of our grace, 

Both he, and they, and you, yea, every man, 

Shall be my friend again, and I ’ll be his : 

So tell your cousin, and bring me word 
What he will do :—Bnt if he will not yield, 

Rebuke and dread correction wait on us, 

And they shall do their office. So, be gone ; 

We will not now be troubled with reply : 

We offer fair, take it advisedly. [Exeunt Worcester and Vernon . 


bhakspere.] 


THE BATTLE OF SHREWSBURY. 


457 


P. Hen. It will not be accepted, on my life : 

The Douglas and the Hotspur both together 
Are confident against the world in arms. 

K. Hen. Hence, therefore, every leader to his charge; 
For on their answer will we set on them : 

And God befriend us, as our cause is just! 


125—THE DEATH OE HENRY IY. v 

Shakspeke. 

[The circumstances which preceded the death of Henry IV., including the story of the 
prince removing the crown, are thus detailed by Holinshed : . 

“In this fourteenth and last year of King Henry's retgn, a council was holden ,n the 
White Friars in London, at the which, among other things, order was taken for ships and 
galleys to be builded and made ready, and all other things necessary to be provided, for a 
voyage which he meant to make into the Holy Land, there to recover the city of Jerusalem 
from 0 the inftdels. The morrow after Candlemas-day, began a Parliament which he had 
Xd at London ; but he departed this life before the same Parliament was ended i for now 
lhat his provisions were ready, and that he was furnished with all things necessary for such 
a roya journey as he pretended to take into the Holy Land, he was eftsoones taken with a 
sore rickness which was not a leprosy (saith Master Hall), as foolish friars imagined, but a 
very apoplexy. During this, his last sickness, he caused liis crown [as some write) to be set 

on ^ a pipowlt his bed's-head, and suddenly Ins pangs so sore troubled him, that he lay as 

, P ,, h • - ta i spirits had been from him departed. Such as were about him, thinking 

leril? tha he had to n departed, covered his face with a linen cloth. The prince his son 

being hereof advertised, entered into the chamber, took away the crown, and departed. The 

bring suddenly revived out of that trance, quickly perceived the lack of his crown, and 
lather tao. sadOe _ y SQn ha4 taken it away , cause d him to come before his 

having knowledge that the P ^ meant ^ ^ miguse himse if : t l,e prince with a good 

presence, requin 0 to m i ne and all men’s judgments, you seemed dead in this world; 
audacity ^wered Sm to mmeand all m ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

wherefore I, as yourn«t r ® , 4 at ri ht x llad to itj Go d knoweth. Well, quoth the 
son, said the :Ling h „ ^ land> and trust t0 keep it with the sword against all 

prince, if jou die king, j it all to God, and remember 

mine enemies as you ha,ien sadU g, ^ d „ God , 

you to do well i and «£***££» “ ster calle d Jerusalem. We find, that he was taken 

'“ih Us“as?sickness, while he was making his prayers at Saint Edward's shrine, there as it 
with his last sicknei , t0 oceed forth on his journey ; he was so suddenly and 

were to take his lea ^ as were ‘about him feared lest he would have died presently ; 
grievously taken, tha possible, they bare him into a chamber that was next at 

wherefore, to relieve h , , P j t wke re they laid him on a pallet before the fire, 

hand belonging toto "Wd!W« tminster,^ ^ ^ ^ ^ understanding> 

and used all remedie lace wllic t h e knew not, he willed to know if the cham- 

and perceiving himself i ^ w £ el | unt0 anS wer was made, that it was called Jerusalem, 
her bad any P^iil ’ to the Father of Heaven, for now I know that I shall die 

here^in^his^chamber, according to the prophesy of me declared, that I should depart this 
life in Jerusalem.”] 

Scene.— Westminster. —King Henry, Clarence, Prince Humphrey, Warm'd, 

and others. 

K. Hen. Now, lords, if Heaven doth give successful end 
To this debate that bleedeth at our doors, 

We will our youth lead on to higher fields, 

And draw no swords but what are sanctifier. 

Our navy is address’d, our power collected, 

Our substitutes in absence well invested, 









458 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE. 


And everything lies level to our wish : 

Only we want a little personal strength ; 

And pause us, till these rebels, now afoot, 

Come underneath the yoke of government. 

War. Both which we doubt not but your majesty 
Shall soon enjoy. 

K. Hen. Humphrey, my son of Gloster, where is the prince your 
brother ? 

P. Humph. I think he’s gone to hunt, my lord, at Windsor. 

K. Hen. And how accompanied ? 

P. Hump. I do not know, my lord. 

K. Hen. Is not his brother, Thomas of Clarence, with him % 

P. Humph. No, my good lord ; he is in presence here. 

Cla. What would my lord and father ? 

K. Hen. Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence. 

How chance thou art not with the prince thy brother ? 

He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas ; 

Thou hast a better place in his affection 
Than all thy brothers : cherish it, my boy ; 

And noble offices thou mayst effect 
Of mediation, after I am dead, 

Between his greatness and thy other brethren : 

Therefore omit him not; blunt not his love 
Nor loose the good advantage of his grace, 

By seeming cold, or careless of his will. 

For he is gracious, if he be observ’d ; 

He hath a tear for pity, and a hand 
Open as day for melting charity : 

Yet notwithstanding, being incens’d, he’s flint; 

As humorous as winter, and as sudden 
As flaws congealed in the spring of day. 

His temper, therefore, must be well observ’d: 

Chide him for his faults, and do it reverently, 

When you perceive his blood inclin’d to mirth: 

But, being moody, give him line and scope ; 

Till that his passions, like a whale on ground, 

Confound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas, 

And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends ; 

A hoop of gold, to bind thy brothers in ; 

That the united vessel of their blood, 

Mingled with venom of suggestion, 

(As, force perforce, the age will pour it in,) 

Shall never leak, though it do work as strong 
As aconitum, or rash gunpowder. 

Cla. I shall observe him with all care and love. 

K. Hen. Why art thou not at Windsor with him, Thomas ? 

Cla. He is not there to-day ; he dines in London. 

K. Hen. And how accompanied ? canst thou tell that ? 

Cla. With Poins, and other his continual followers. 

K. Hen. Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds ; 

And he the noble image of my youth, 

Is overspread with them : therefore my grief 





THE DEATH OP HEMK.Y IV. 


459 


SHAKSFERE.] 


Stretches itself beyond the hour of death ; 

The blood weeps from my heart, when I do shape, 

In forms imaginary, the unguided days, 

And rotten times, that you shall look upon 
When I am sleeping with my ancestors. 

For when his headstrong riot hath no curb, 

When rage and hot blood are his counsellors, 

When means and lavish manners meet together, 

O, with what wings shall his affections fly 
Towards fronting peril and oppos’d decay ! 

War. My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite; 
The prince but studies his companions, 

Like a strange tongue : wherein, to gain the language, 

’T is needful that the most immodest word 
Be look’d upon and learn’d ; which once attain’d, 

Your highness knows comes to no further use, 

But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms, 

The prince will, in the perfectness of time, 

Cast off his followers : and their memory 
Shall as a pattern or a measure live, 

By which his grace must mete the lives of otheis ; 

Turning past evils to advantages. 

K. Hen. ’Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her comb 
In the dead carrion.—Who’s here 1 Westmoreland 1 


V 


Enter Westmoreland. 

West. Health to my sovereign ! and new happiness 

Added to that that I am to deliver ! 

Prince John, your son, doth kiss your grace’s hand ; 
Mowbray, the bishop Scroop, Hastings, and all, 

Are brought to the correction of youi law ; 

There is not now a rebel’s sword unsheath d, 

But peace puts forth her olive everywheie. 

The manner how this action hath been borne 
Here at more leisure may your highness read ; 

With every course, in his particular. 

K. Hen. 0 Westmoreland, thou art a summer bud, 
Which ever in the haunch of winter sings 
The lifting up of day. Look 1 here’s more news. 


Enter Harcourt. 

Har. From enemies Heaven keep your majesty ; 

And, when they stand against you, may they fall 
As those that I am come to tell you of! 

The earl Northumberland, and the lord Bardolph, 

With a great power of English and of Scots, 

Are by the sheriff of Yorkshire overthrown : 

The manner and true order of the fight, 

This packet, please it you, contains at large. p 

X. lien. And wherefore should these good news make me sick. 

Will Fortune never come with both hands full, 

But write her fair words still in foulest letteis ] 




460 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERH. 

She either gives a stomach, and no food,— 

Such are the poor, in health ; or else a feast, 

And takes away the stomach, —such are the rich, 

That have abundance, and enjoy it not. 

I should rejoice now at this happy news ; 

And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy :— 

0 me ! come near me, now I am much ill. [/S^cocm*. 

P. Hum. Comfort, your majesty ! 

Cla. 0 my royal father ! 

West. My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself, look up ! 

War. Be patient, princes : you do know, these fits 
Are with his highness very ordinary. 

Stand from him, give him air ; he ’ll straight be well. 

Cla. No, no ; he cannot long hold out these pangs ; 

The incessant care and labour of his mind 
Hath wrought the mure, that should confine it in, 

So thin, that life looks through, and will break out. 

P. Humph. The people fear me ; for they do observe 
Unfather’d heirs, and loathly births of nature : 

The seasons change their manners, as the year 
Had found some months asleep, and leap’d them over. 

Cla. The river hath thrice flow’d, no ebb between : 

And the old folk, time’s doting chronicles, 

Say it did so, a little time before 

That our great-grandsire, Edward, sick’d and died. 

War. Speak lower, princes, for the king recovers. 

P. Humph. This apoplexy will, certain, be his end. 

K. Hen. I pray you, take me up, and bear me hence 
Into some other chamber : softly, pray. 

\They convey the King into an inner part of the 
room , and place him on a bed. 

Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends ; 

Unless some dull and favourable hand 
Will whisper music to my weary spirit. 

War. Call for the music in the other room. 

K. Hen. Set me the crown upon my pillow here. 

Cla. His eye is hollow, and he changes much. 

War. Less noise, less noise. 

Enter Prince Henry. 

P. Hen. Who saw the duke of Clarence ? 

Cla. I am here, brother, full of heaviness. 

P. Hen. How now ! rain within doors, and none abroad! 

How doth the king ? 

P. Humph. Exceeding ill. 

P. Hen. Heard he the good news yet ? 

Tell it him. 

P. Humph. He alter’d much upon the hearing it. 

P. Hen. If he be sick with joy, he will recover without physic. 

War. Not so much noise, my lords ;—sweet prince, speak low ; 

The king your father is dispos’d to sleep. 


THE DEATH OF HENRY IV. 


461 


Cla. Let us withdraw into the other room. 

War. Will’t please your grace to go along with us ? 

P. Hen. No ; I will sit and watch here by the king. 

[Exeunt all but P. Henry. 

Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow, 

Being so troublesome a bedfellow ? 

O polish’d perturbation ! golden care ! 

That keep’st the ports of slumber open wide 

To many a watchful night !—sleep with it now v 

Yet not so sound, and half so deeply sweet, 

As he, whose brow, with homely biggin bound, 

Snores out the watch of night. 0 majesty ! 

When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit 
Like a rich armour worn in heat of day, 

That scalds with safety. By his gates of breath 
There lies a downy feather which stirs not: 

Did he suspire, that light and weightless down 
Perforce must move. My gracious lord ! my father ! 

This sleep is sound indeed ; this is a sleep, 

That from this golden rigold hath divorc’d 
So many English kings. Thy due, from me, 

Is tears, and heavy sorrows of the blood ; 

Which nature, love, and filial tenderness, 

Shall, 0 dear father, pay thee plenteously : 

My due, from thee, is this imperial crown ; 

Which, as immediate from thy place and blood, 

Derives itself to me. Lo, here it sits,— [Putting it on his head. 

Which Heaven shall guard : And put the world’s whole strength 
Into one giant arm, it shall not force 
This lineal honour from me : This from thee 

Will I to mine leave, as’t is left to me. [Exit. 

K. Hen. Warwick! Gloster! Clarence! 

Re-enter Warwick, and the rest. 

Ql a Doth the king call'? 

War. What would your majesty ? How fares your grace ? 

K. Hen. Why did you leave me here alone, my lords ? 

Cla. We left the prince my brother here, my liege, 

Who undertook to sit and watch by yon. 

K. Hen. The prince of Wales ? Where is he ? let me see him. 

He is not here. 

War. This door is open ; he is gone this way. 

P. Humph. He came not through the chamber where we stay d. 

K. Hen. Where is the crown ? who took it from my pillow ? 

War. When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here. 

K. Hen. The prince hath ta’en it hence ;—go, seek him out. 

Is he so hasty, that he doth suppose 

Find' hira^my 1 'lord If Warwick ; chide him hither. [Exit Warwick. 
This part of his conjoins with my disease,. 

And helps to end me.—See, sons, what things you are ! 






462 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHASSPERK, 


How quickly nature falls into revolt, 

When gold, becomes her object ! 

For this the foolish over-careful fathers 

Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care. 

Their bones with industry ; 

For this they have engrossed and pil’d up 
The canker’d heaps of strange-achieved gold ; 

For this they have been thoughtful to invest 
Their sons with arts and martial exercises : 

When, like the bee, culling from every flower 
The virtuous sweets ; 

Our thighs pack’d with wax, our mouths with honey, 

We bring it to the hive : and, like the bees, 

Are murtlier’d for our pains. This bitter taste 
Yields his engrossments to the ending father. 

Re-enter Warwick. 

Now, where is he that will not stay so long 
Till his friend sickness hath determin’d me ? 

War. My lord, I found the prince in the next room, 

Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks; 

With such a deep demeanour in great sorrow. 

That tyranny, which never quaff’d but blood, 

Would, by beholding him, have wash’d his knife 
With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither. 

K. Hen. But wherefore did he take away the crown ? 

Re-enter Prince Henry. 

Lo, where he comes;—Come hither to me, Harry :— 

Depart the chamber, leave us here alone. 

[Exeunt Clarence , Prince Humphrey , Lords , Sc. 
P. Hen. I never thought to hear you speak again. 

K. Hen. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought: 

I stay too long by thee, I weary thee. 

Dost thou so hunger for my empty chair, 

That thou wilt needs invest thee with mine honours 

Before thy hour be ripe ? 0 foolish youth 

Thou seek’st the greatness that will overwhelm thee. 

Stay but a little ; for my cloud of dignity 
Is held from falling with so weak a wind, 

That it will quickly drop: my day is dim. 

Thou hast stol’n that, which, after some few hours, 

Were thme without offence ; and, at my death, 

Thou hast seal'd up my expectation : 

Thy life did manifest thou lov’dst me not, 

And thou wilt have me die assur’d of it. 

Thou hid’st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts ; 

Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart, 

To stab at half an hour of my life. 

What ! canst thou not forbear me half an hour ? 

Then get thee gone ; and dig my grave thyself; 




THE DEATH OF HENRY IV. 


463 


8HAKSPERE.] 

And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear 
That thou art crowned, not that I am dead. 

Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse 
Be drops of balm, to sanctify thy head : 

Only compound me with forgotten dust; 

Give that, which gave thee life, unto the worms. 

Pluck down my officers, break my decrees ; 

For now a time is come to mock at form. 

Harry the fifth is crown’d—Up, \anity ! 

Down, royal state ! all you sage counsellors, hence ! 
And to the English court assemble now, 

From every region, apes of idleness ! 

Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum : 
Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance, 

Revel the night ; rob, murder, and cjmmit 
The oldest sins the newest kind of ways ? 

Be happy, he will trouble you no more : 

England shall double gild his treble guilt: 

England shall give him office, honour, might: 

For the fifth Harry from curb'd licence plucks 
The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog 
Shall flesh his tooth in every innocent. 

0 my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows ! 

When that my care could not withhold thy riots, 

What wilt thou do when riot is thy care ? 

O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, 

Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants ! 

I*. Hen. O, pardon me, my liege ! but for my tears, 
The moist impediments unto my speech, 

I had forestall’d this dear and deep rebuke, 

Ere you with grief had spoke, and I had heard 
The course of it so far. There is your crown : 

And He that wears the crown immortally, 

Long guard it yours ! If I affect it more, 

Than as your honour, and as your renown, 

Let me no more from this obedience rise,— 

(Which my most true and inward duteous spirit 
Teacheth,)—this prostrate and exterior bending! 
Heaven witness with me, when I here came in 
And found no course of breath within your majesty, 
How cold it struck my heart! If I do feign, 

0, let me in my present wildness die ; 

And never live to show th’ incredulous world 
The noble change that I have purposed ! 

Coming to look on you, thinking you dead, 

(And dead almost, my liege, to think you were,) 

I spake unto the crown as having sense, 

And thus upbraided it:—“ The care on thee depending 
Hath fed upon the body of my father ; 

Therefore, thou, best of gold, art worst of gold. 

Other, less fine in carat, is more precious, 

Preserving life in med’eine potable ; 




[Knee ling, 






46 4 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORT. 


[SHAKSPEV3 


But thou, most fine, most honour’d, most renown’d, 
Hast eat thy bearer up.”—Thus, my most royal liege, 
Accusing it, I put it on my head, 

To try with it,—as with an enemy, 

That had before my face murther’d my father,— 

The quarrel of a true inheritor. 

But if it did infect my blood with joy, 

Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride ; 

If any veuei or vain spirit of mine 
Did, with the least affection of a welcome, 

Give entertainment to the might of it, 

Let Heaven for ever keep it from my head, 

And make me as the poorest vassal is, 

That doth with awe and terror kneel to it. 

K. Hen. 0 my son! 

Heaven put it in thy mind to take it hence, 

That thou mightst win the more thy father’s love, 
Pleading so wisely in excuse of it. 

Come hither, Harry, sit thou by my bed ; 

And hear, I think, the very latest counsel 

That ever I shall breathe. Heaven knows, my son. 

By what by-paths, and indirect crook’d ways, 

I met this crown ; and I myself know well 
How troublesome it sat upon my head : 

To thee it shall descend with better quiet, 

Better opinion, better confirmation ; 

For all the soil of the achievement goes 

With me into the earth. It seem’d in me 

But as an honour snatch’d with boisterous hand ; 

And I had many living, to upbraid 
My gain of it by their assistances ; 

Which dady grew to quarrel, and to bloodshed, 
Wounding supposed peace : all these bold fears, 

Thou seest, with peril I have answered : 

For all my reign hath been but as a scene 
Acting that argument; and now my death 
Changes the mood : for what in me was purchas’d, 

Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort; 

So thou the garland wear’st successively. 

Yet, though thou stand’st more sure than I could do, 
Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green ; 

And all thy friends, which thou must make thy friends. 
Have but their stings and teeth newly ta’en out; 

By whose fell working I was first advanc’d, 

And by whose power I well might lodge a fear 
To be again displac’d : which to avoid, 

I cut them off; and had a purpose now 
To lead out many to the Holy Land ; 

Lest rest, and lying still, might make them look 
Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry, 

Be it thy course, to busy giddy minds 

With foreign quarrels ; that action, hence homo out. 


THE DEATH OF HENRY ly. 


465 


BHAKSPERE.] 

May waste the memory of the former days. 

More would I, but my lungs are wasted so, 

That strength of speech is utterly denied me. 

How I came by the crown, 0 Heaven forgive ! 

And grant it may with thee in true peace live ! 

P. Hen. My gracious liege, 

You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me ; 

Then plain and right must my possession be : 

Which I, with more than with a common pain, 

’Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain. 

Enter Prince John of Lancaster , Warwick, Lords , and others. 

K. Hen. Look, look, here comes my John of Lancaster. 

P. John. Health, peace and happiness, to my royal father ! 

K. Hen. Thou bring’st me happiness and peace, son John ; 

But health, alack, with youthful wings is flown 
From this bare wither’d trunk : upon thy sight, 

My worldly business makes a period. 

Where is my lord of Warwick 1 

P. Hen. My lord of Warwick ! 

K. Ren. Doth any name particular belong 
Unto the lodging where I first did swoon ? 

War. ’T is call’d Jerusalem, my noble lord. 

K. Hen. Laud be to Heaven !—even there my life must end. 

It hath bee*n prophesied to me many years, 

I should not die but in Jerusalem; 

Which vainly I suppos’d the Holy Land :— 

But, bear me to that chamber ; there I’ll lie; 

In that Jerusalem shall Harry die. [Exeunt. 


126.—KING HENRY Y. AND THE LORD CHIEF JUSTICE. 

Shakspere. 

[The story is told by Sir Tomas Elyot, in his hook of ‘ The Governor,’ of the committal of 
Prince Henry to the Fleet by the Lord Chief Justice. This tradition was believed (perhaps 
upon the authority of Elyot) by Sir Edward Coke and Sir John Hawkins; and was referred 
to by them in legal arguments. The anecdote, as detailed by Elyot, is very amusing :— 

“ A good Judge, a good Prince, a good King. 

“ The most renowned prince, King Henry V., late king of England, during the life of his 
father, was noted to be fierce and of wanton courage. It happened that one of his servants 
whom he favoured well, was for felony by him committed arraigned at the King’s Bench; 
wherefore the prince being advertised, and incensed by light persons about him, in furious 
rage came hastily to the bar, where his servant stood as a prisoner, and commanded him to 
be ungyved and set at liberty. Whereat all men were abashed, reserved the chief justice, 
who humbly exhorted the prince to be contented that his servant might be ordered according 
to the antient laws of this realm ; or if he would have him saved from the rigour of the laws, 
that he should obtain, if he might, of the king his father his gracious pardon, whereby no 
law or justice should be derogate. 

“With which answer the prince nothing appeased, but rather more inflamed, endeavoured 
himself to take aw r ay his servant. The judge considering the perilous example and incon¬ 
venience that might thereby ensue, with a valiant spirit and courage commanded the prince 
upon his allegiance to leave the prisoner and depart his way ; at which commandment the 
prince being set all in a fury, all chafed, and in a terrible manner, came up to the place of 









466 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE. 


judgement, men thinking that he would have slain the judge, or have done to him some 
damage : but the judge sitting still without moving, declaring the majesty of the king’s place 
°f judgement, and with an assured and bold countenance, had to the prince these words 
following;— 

“ ‘ Sir, remember yourself. I keep here the place of the king your sovereign lord and 
father, to whom you owe double obedience: wherefore eftsoones in his name, I charge you 
to desist of your wilfulness and unlawful enterprise, and from henceforth give good example 
to those which hereafter shall be your proper subjects. And now, for your contempt, and 
disobedience, go you to the prison of the King’s Bench, whereunto I commit you, and remain 
ye there prisoner until the pleasure of the king your father be further known.’ With which 
words being abashed, and also wondering at the marvellous gravity of that worshipful justice, 
the noble prince laying his weapon apart, doing reverence, departed and went to the King’s 
Bench as he was commanded. Whereat his servants disdained, came and shewed to the king 
all the whole affair, whereat he a whiles studying, after as a man all ravished with gladness, 
holding his eyes and hands up towards heaven, abraided with a loud voice : £ 0 merciful God, 
how much am I bound to your infinite goodness, specially for that you have given me a judge 
who feareth not to minister justice, and also a son who can suffer semblabiy and obey justice.’”] 


Ch. Just. Good morrow, and heaven save your majesty ! 

King. This new and gorgeous garment, majesty, 

Sits not so easy on me as you think. 

Brothers, you mix your sadness with some fear; 

This is the English, not the Turkish court ; 

Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds, 

But Harry Harry : Yet be sad, good brothers, 

Eor, to speak truth, it very well becomes you ; 

Sorrow so royally in you appears, 

That I will deeply put the fashion on, 

And wear it in my heart. Why, then, be sad: 

But entertain no more of it, good brothers, 

Than a joint burthen laid upon us all. 

Eor me, by Heaven, I bid you be assur’d, 

I’ll be your father and your brother too : 

Let me but bear your love, I ’ll bear your cares. 

Yet weep, that Harry’s dead; and so will I; 

But Harry lives, that shall convert those tears 
By number, into hours of happiness. 

P. John , c&c. We hope no other from your majesty. 

King. You all look strangely on me.—and you most; 

[ To the Chief Justice. 

You are, I think, assur’d I love you not. 

Ch. Just. I am assur’d, if I be measur’d rightly, 

Your majesty hath no just cause to hate me. 

King. No ! How might a prince of my great hopes forget 
So great indignities you laid upon me ? 

What ! rate, rebuke, and roughly send to prison 
Th’ immediate heir of England ! Was this easy 
May this be wash’d in Lethe, and forgotten ! 

Ch. Just. I then did use the person of your father; 

The image of his power lay then in me : 

And, in th’ administration of his law, 

Whiles I was busy for the commonwealth, 


3HAKSFEKE.] KING HENRY V, AND THE LORD CHIEF JUSTICE. 

Your highness pleased to forget my place, 

The majesty and power of law and justice, 

The image of the king whom I presented, 

And struck me in my very seat of judgment ; 

Whereon, as an offender to your father, 

I gave bold way to my authority, 

And did commit you. If the deed were ill, 

Be you contented, wearing now the garland, 

To have a son set your decrees at nought: 

To pluck down justice from your awful bench ; 

To trip the course of law, and blunt the sword 
That guards the peace and safety of your person : 

Nay, more ; to spurn at your most royal image, 

And mock your workings in a second body. 

Question your royal thoughts, make the case yours ; 

Be now the father, and propose a son : 

Hear your own dignity so much profan’d, 

See your most dreadful laws so loosely slighted, 

Behold yourself so by a son disdain’d ; 

And then imagine me taking your part, 

And, in your power, soft silencing your son : 

After this cold considerance, sentence me ; • 

And, as you are a king, speak in your state, 

What I have done that misbecame my place, 

My person, or my liege’s sovereignty. 

King. You are right, justice, and you weigh this well 
Therefore still bear the balance and the sword : 

And I do wish your honours may increase, 

Till you do live to see a son of mine 
Offend you, and obey you, as I did. 

So shall I live to speak my father’s words :— 

Happy am I, that have a man so bold, 

That dares do justice on my proper son : 

And no less happy, having such a son, 

That would deliver up his greatness so 

Into the hands of justice.—You did commit me : 

For which, I do commit into your hand 

Th’ unstained sword that you have us’d to bear; 

With this remembrance,—That you use the same 
With the like bold, just, and impartial spirit, 

As you have done ’gainst me. There is my hand ; 

You shall be as a father to my youth : 

My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear; 

And I will stoop and humble my intents 
To your well-practis’d, wise directions. 

And, princes all, believe me, I beseech you ; 

My father is gone wild into his grave, 

For in his tomb lie my affections ; 

And with his spirit sadly I survive, 

To mock the expectation of the world ; 

To frustrate prophecies ; and to raze out 
Rotten opinion, who hath writ me down 


467 



468 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPER* 


After my seeming. The tide of blood in me 
Hath proudly flow’d in vanity, till now : 

Now doth it turn, and ebb back to the sea ; 

Where it shall mingle with the state of floods, 

And flow henceforth in formal majesty. 

Now call we our high court of parliament : 

And let us choose such limbs of noble counsel, 

That the great body of our state may go . 

In equal rank with the best govern’d nation ; 

That war, or peace, or both at once, may be 
As things acquainted and familiar to us ;— 

In which you, father, shall have foremost hand. 

[To the Lord Chief Justice. 

Our coronation done, we will accite, 

As I before remember’d, all our state : 

And (Heaven consigning to my good intents) 

No prince, nor peer, shall have just cause to say, 

Heaven shorten Harry’s happy life one day. [Exeunt. 


127.—THE BATTLE OF AGIN COURT. 

Penny Mag. 

When Henry Y. had been little more than a year upon the throne, he was 
prompted by his own love of war, by the spirit of the English people, and by the 
wretched condition of the French, to demand the crown of France, as the represen¬ 
tative of Isabella, the wife of the second Edward, in whose right Edward III. had 
founded his pretensions. But Henry’s claims were even more absurd than Edward’s : 
for, supposing the claims of Edward to have been admissible, the right to the crown 
of France would then rest not with Henry, but with Edward Mortimer, the Earl of 
March. Henry’s project of conquest, however, was warmly encouraged by the 
church, and by both houses of Parliament. At a council, which met at Westminster, 
on the 16th of April, 1415, Henry announced his firm purpose of making a voyage, 
in his own proper person, to recover his dominions in France. Both bishops and 
lay-lords enthusiastically applauded this resolution, and assured him of their hearty 
co-operation. Some attempts at negotiation were made by France, to avert the 
coming storm, but they did not emanate from any established government ; for 
nothing was reigning in that unhappy country but anarchy, crime, and confusion 
among all classes. At Winchester, as Henry was on his way to Southampton to 
embark, he was met by the Archbishop of Bourges, who had been despatched by 
the Duke of Berri, in the vain hope of preventing, for a short time, the threatened 
danger. But Henry told this prelate that the crown of France was his right, and 
that he would win it by the sword. The archbishop, who was a brave man, replied, 
that his master. King Charles, had made the most liberal offers, not out of fear, but 
from his compassion and love of peace. “ If thou makest thy attempt,” he con¬ 
tinued, “ he will call upon the blessed Virgin and all the saints, and then, with their 
aid, and the support of faithful subjects and allies, thou wilt be driven into the sea. 
or thou wilt be taken captive or slain.” “ We shall see,” replied the king ; and, 
dismissing the archbishop with many rich presents, he continued his way to South¬ 
ampton. The sudden intelligence of a conspiracy against his life checked his pro¬ 
gress, and he was detained in England for some time. At last Henry embarked 



PENNY MAG.] THE BATTLE OP AGINCOURT. 469 

and set sail from Southampton. His fleet amounted to twelve or fourteen hundred 
sail of vessels, from twenty to three hundred tons burthen ; his army to six 
thousand five hundred horse, and about twenty-four thousand foot, of all kinds. On 
the 13th ot August he anchored in the mouth of the Seine, three miles from Har- 
fleur, a very strong fortress on the left bank of that river. On the following day 
he began to land troops and stores. He was never interrupted, although the opera¬ 
tion took up three whole days ; and the place of debarkation presented many diffi¬ 
culties. A proclamation was issued forbidding, under pain of death, all excesses 
against the peaceful inhabitants ; and it is remarked, by contemporary (French as 
well as English) historians, that Henry enforced the uniform good treatment of the 
people of the districts through which he afterwards passed ; and that, too, even 
when his own army were suffering the greatest privations. On the 17th he laid 
siege to Harfleur, which was very strongly garrisoned. 

The loss sustained by Henry’s army was very great, not so much from the sword, 
or the awkward artillery of those times, as from a frightful dysentery, brought on 
by the damp and unwholesome situation of the place. He lost many of his great 
captains, and the men died by hundreds. But the garrison, despairing of relief, 
and suffering dreadfully from the same dysentery, capitulated after a siege of thirty- 
six days. The sick and wounded were then shipped for England, and Henry re¬ 
mained a few days in the captured town. 

With the small force which now remained to the King of England it seemed 
madness to undertake any great enterprise. It is said that a council of war recom¬ 
mended that he should re-embark ; but Henry scorned the notion of returning to 
England with no honour gained, save the taking of a single town. “ No,” said he, 
“ we must first see, by God’s help, a little more of this good land of France, which 
is all our own.” With the reductions made by the siege, by sickness, and by leav¬ 
ing a garrison at Harfleur, the army did not exceed nine thousand men. They were 
drawn out and prepared to march through the hostile provinces of Normandy, Pi¬ 
cardy, and Artois to Calais. The march began on the 6th of October when a great 
force under the king and dauphin were at Rouen, and another, under the Constable 
of France, in Picardy, whither troops were pouring in all directions. Henry met 
with no great resistance in his passage through Normandy. On the 12th he reached 
the memorable ford of Blanche-Taque, where he hoped to pass like Edward III. ; 
but the French, taught by experience, had resolved to defend the line of the Somme, 
and had fortified both banks, by driving strong palisades across the ford, and placing 
archers behind them. Henry made several attempts to force a passage at other 
points, but he was foiled ; every ford was fortified, and columns of horse and foot 
manoeuvred on the right bank, keeping in line with him as he moved up the left. A 
good part of his army began to feel dispirited; but at last, on the morning of the 
19th, Henry had the good fortune to find a ford between Betencourt and Yoyenne, 
which had not been staked by the people of St. Quentin. He dashed across the 
ford, the van-guard firmly established itself on the right bank ; and then the rest of 
the army and the baggage got across wfith safety. At this the French Con¬ 
stable, much disheartened, fell back upon St. Pol, in Artois. King Henry quietly 
followed, by the same road. His small force was still more reduced by sickness, 
while that of the French kept increasing every day, and in a short time the whole 
of the royal army of France was in Artois. “They sent,” says Stow, “ three heralds 
to the King of England, to give understanding that he should not escape without 
battle ; ” unto whom the king answered, “ All things be done at the pleasure of 
God. I will keep the right way towards Calais ; if our adversaries do attempt to 
disturb us in our journey, we think they shall not do it without their own great 
danger and peril.” And Henry was as good as his word ; he went straight on, 




470 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORT. 


[PENNY MAO. 

never going out of his way, nor moving faster nor slower than he had intended. 
On the 24th he crossed the deep river of Ternois, and soon after came in sight of 
part of the enemy. He expected an attack and formed in order of battle ; but the 
columns he saw withdrew to Azincourt. Henry then marched on to Maisoncelles, 
a large village, only a few bow-shots from the enemy’s outposts. Provisions were 
brought in, the men refreshed themselves, and had some rest. When the moon 
rose, officers were sent out to ascertain the position of the French. All night long 
the English played upon their trumpets, and other martial instruments, so that the 
whole neighbourhood was filled with the sound of their music. Although they 
were very tired, and cold, and hungry, they kept up a cheerful spirit ; but many of 
them confessed their sins, took the sacrament, and made their wills. 

The night was passed in a very different manner by the French army. They 
were very confident and very boisterous. The Constable of France struck the royal 
banner into the ground on the Calais road; and the other princes, knights, and 
barons planted their banners around it with loud acclamations. The Constable 
ordered them to pass the night every troop near its own standard. It was rainy 
and cold, but they lit large fires all along their line ; and, as they warmed them¬ 
selves, the soldiers passed the wine-cup round, made great boastings, and calculated 
the proper ransoms of the king and great barons of England, whom they made quite 
sure of taking prisoners on the morrow. The pages and valets of the army rode 
about looking for hay and straw to lay on the damp ground ; horses slipped and 
floundered about in the clayey soil : and there was a continual movement and 
noise, and a very evident want of discipline : horsemen were heard afar off calling 
to one another, but by some awkward chance there were no musical instruments to 
enliven their hearts. It was remarked that very few of their horses neighed during 
the night, which, adds Monstrelet, was considered as a very bad omen. But there 
were some who were not quite so confident of the result. The Duke of Berri, who 
had fought at Poictiers sixty years ago, and who remembered how certain the French 
had then been of victory, opposed the plan of giving battle altogether, and prevented 
the project of placing Charles in person at the head of his forces. “ It is better,” 
said the old man, “ to lose the battle than the king and the battle.” 

At the dawn of the morning, “after prayers and supplications of the king, his 
priests and people, done with great devotion,” Henry placed his men in battle array. 
He formed them into three divisions and two wings ; but the divisions stood so 
close together that they appeared as one. The archers were placed in advance of 
the men-at-arms in the form of a wedge. 

“ The night before,” says old Stow, “ by the advice and counsel (as it is said) of 
the Duke of York, the king had given commandment through his host, that every 
man should purvey him a stake sharp at both ends, which the Englishmen fixed in 
the ground before them in the field, to defend them from the oppression of horse¬ 
men.” These stakes formed together an excellent rampart, in the nature of clieveux 
de frise , and they could be moved and fixed again in case of a change of position. 
The upper end of the stakes, which projected against the enemy, was tipped with 
iron : this was a new precaution, and had never been used in war before by Chris¬ 
tians. Henry had given orders that the baggage, the priests, the tents, and horses 
—for this fight, like Crecy and Poictiers, was to be fought on foot—should be 
placed in the rear. When these dispositions were made Henry mounted a small 
gray horse and rode along the lines. The brave and cheerful aspect of Henry’s 
countenance on that morning, his martial bearing and his kingly costume, as they 
are described by our old chroniclers, afford a fine study for the painter. He wore 
“ on his head a bright helmet, whereupon was set a crown of gold, replete with 
p^arl and precious stones, marvellous rich and on his surcoat the arms of Eng- 


THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT. 


471 


PENNY MAG.] 


land and France were embroidered. But wliat struck the English more than the 
gold and sparkling gems was the bright lively blue eye of the hero, whose counte¬ 
nance, like that of Edward the Third on the like occasion, was serenely cheerful 
As he rode from rank to rank, he said a few inspiriting words to each. He told 
them that he had made up his mind to conquer or to die there—that England 
should never have to pay a ransom for him. He toid the archers that the French 
had sworn an oath to cut off the three fingers of their right hand to unfit them for 
their craft ; and he reminded them of the atrocities committed at Soissons, where 
two hundred brave Englishmen (prisoners of war) had been hanged like dogs. “We 
have not come,” said the heroic king, “into our kingdom of France like mortal 
enemies ; we have not burnt towns and villages ; we have not outraged women and 
maidens like our adversaries at Soissons. They are full of sin and have no fear of 
God.” As the king passed by one of the divisions, he heard a brave officer, Walter 
Hungerford, expressing a wish that some of the gallant knights and stout archers 
who were living in idleness in merry England could be present on the field. “No!” 
cried King Henry, “ I would not have a single man more. If God gives us the 
victory, the fewer we are, the more honour ; and if we lose, the less will be the loss 
to our country. But we will not lose ; fight as you were wont to do, and before 
night the pride of our numberless enemies shall be humbled to the dust.” The 
disparity of numbers was indeed appalling ; the French, at the most moderate cal¬ 
culation, being as six to one. 

“ God’s arm strike with us ! ’tis a fearful odds.” 


But they had gained little from experience. Their leaders had crowded the immense 
host in fields between two woods, where there was not room to deploy or to man¬ 
oeuvre with any facility. They could hardly have chosen a worse position. The 
rain had made some of the fields impassable to horses bearing the weight of men 
in heavy armour. This, which was so great a difficulty to the French and which 
made their cavalry almost useless, presented no obstacle at all to the English foot, 
who were lightly accoutred, and could plant their stakes the easier into the ground 

from its softness. 

A close parallel has been drawn between the battles of Crecy and Azmcourt; but 
in some respects they were different. The French, warned and tutored it may be 
by the old Duke of Berri, did not begin the action, but waited to be attacked, every 
man sitting down on the ground near to his own banner. King Henry had calcu¬ 
lated on the sure and inextricable confusion of the first movement of so groat a 
force on such close and difficult ground ; and he patiently awaited their attack. 
During this time he distributed a little food and some wine among his men, who 
sat down on the ground and quietly ate their breakfasts ; even as their forefathers 
had done on the field of Crecy. While the small and compact force of Henry was 
governed by one master will, the loose large multitude of the French was distracted 
bv the conflicting opinions of many and presumptuous men. The Constable by 
right of his office was commander-in-chief; but there w T ere with him many princes 
and others, and the Duke of Orleans, the Count of Nevers, and a host of young 
gentlemen who had just put on their knightly spurs, and had never earned them ; 
and these were either impatient of the Constable’s control or held contrary opinions 
to him while the young and untried knights were all anxious to begin the battle 
and wanted to charge the English at once without any preconcerted plan But the 
more cautious Constable, it appears, would foin have waited the arrival of fres le- 
inforcements under the Marshal de Loigny and the Duke of Brittany, who were on 
their march and expected in the course of a day or two. It seemed disgrace u , 
with such odds, to wait for more, but the Constable prevailed. As the morning 







472 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[PENNY M IQ. 

wore away the Constable sent Messire Guicharcl Dauphin and the Sire de Helly to 
the English camp, with an offer of a free passage to Henry, if he would, on his part, 
restore Harfleur. together with all the prisoners he had made, and give up his 
pretensions to the throne of France. But Henry, undismayed by the large force 
before him, was as bold now as he had been in his own capital, and would only treat 
upon the same conditions. If he had allowed himself to be amused by the Con¬ 
stable with these negotiations a day or two longer, his army would have been 
starved outright. Seeing then that the French had no intention to come to him, 
he determined to go to them. He threw out two detachments,—the one to lie in 
ambush on the left flank of the French, the other to the rear, w r here, when the battle 
began, they were to set fire to a barn and house belonging to the priory of St. 
George at Hesdin, and so create an alarm. These manoeuvres were executed ; and 
the two detachments, both composed of archers, got to the posts appointed, and 
lay in wait without being perceived by the enemy. 


128.—THE EATTLE OF AGINCOUET.— (Continued.) 

Penny Mag. 

This “ marvellous, fierce, and cruel battle ” abounds in striking and stirring 
pictures ; the first onset of the English is, perhaps, one of the most striking of 
them all. 

It was towards the hour of noon when Henry gave the brief but cheering order 
—“ Banners Advance ! ” And then the venerable Sir Thomas Erpingham, the 
commander of the archers, a knight grown gray with age and honour, threw his 
truncheon into the air, exclaiming—“ Now strike ! ” The distance between the 
two armies was less than a quarter of a mile. The English came on in gallant 
array, until the foremost were within bow-shot of the French. Then the archers 
stuck their stakes in the ground before them, and set up a tremendous shout. Their 
loud huzzas were instantly echoed by the men that lay concealed on the left flank 
of the French, who, the next minute, were assailed by a tremendous shower of arrows 
both in front and flank. The French had few bowmen or none at all, for that 
weapon was considered unworthy of knightly hands, and the princes had insolently 
rejected the service of the burghers and other plebeians, holding that France ought 
to be defended only by men of gentle blood. Messire Clignet, of Brabant, thought 
that he could break the English archers with the lance, and he charged with twelve 
hundred horse, crying “ Mountjoye ! St. Denis ! ” But the ground was soft and 
slippery ; the flight of arrows that met them right in the face was terrific. Some 
were slain ; some rolled horse and horseman on the field ; others turned their 
horses’ heads ; and of the whole twelve hundred, not above seven score followed 
their chiefs up to the English front, where the archers, instead of wearing steel 
armour, had even thrown aside their leathern jackets that they might have a freer 
use of their nervous arms. But between the defence of the sharp stakes, and the 
incessant flight of their arrows, very few of the French lances reached those open 
breasts. Such of the knights as stood their ground, stooped their heads as the 
arrows went through their vizors ; confused and blinded, they scarcely knew what 
they were doing. They lost the command of their horses, which, wounded in many 
places, became mad with pain, and galloped back, joining the other fugitives, and 
breaking the first division of the French army. Three horses only penetrated be¬ 
yond the stakes, and they were instantly slain. The confusion of the French was 
now very great. Everywhere within reach of the arrows the French horses were 
capering about, or rushing wildly through the lines, doing mischief to their own 
army and causing the wildest uproar. Columns got mixed ; the words of command 



THE BATTLE OF AOES'GGUTiT. 


473 


PENNY MAG.] _____ 

were disregarded : and while the timid stole to the rear, the brave all rushed for¬ 
ward to the van, crowding the division that was over-crowded before in that narrow 
space. More than once they were so huddled together that they had not room to 
couch their lances. Meanwhile the English, removing their stakes, came on with 
still more tremendous “bruit and noise the French made a slight letiogiade 
movement, and then, so badly had the ground been chosen, they, got into some 
newly ploughed corn-fields, where their horses sunk almost to their saddle-gii ths, 
stuck fast, or rolled over with their riders. Seeing that the van-guard was tho¬ 
roughly disordered, the English archers left their stakes, which they did not use 
a^ain, and slinging their bows behind them, rushed into the thickest of the melee 
with their bill-hooks and hatchets. There, they themselves being almost without 
clothing, and many of them both bare-footed and bare-headed the English archers 
laid about them with their bare sinewy arms, and hit fearful knocks against t le 
steel-clad knights of France. The Constable, and many of the most illustnous of 
the French knights, were presently killed by these despised P^beia^ who withou 
any assistance from the chivalry of England, dispersed the who 

second division opened to rec ^ ve J^ of Brabant, who had 

jsj5U»jrsws5 l & xtssssass-* 

'i f- i 1- wipd a fresh charge of horse, but he was instantly slam by the 
behind him, heaaeu. a nesn encugo # ’ ,, , __The seeond 

of their armour made them^ink ^ e b ^ P E “ li ^ 6 b ^”; n> helmed them* again 
h,s men-at-arms, ami ca d tr00p3 found little inconvenience from the 

into good order. These g y d 1P . . limbs ; they were as fresh as when 

nature of the soil: the kin § led 

they first came into the batt . > 8 al batt le took place, and that Henry’s 

on to a fresh charge. It was now that he / the ’ D uke of Clarence, 

life was repeatedly put in tie giea cs 1 • ^ been bill’d or made prisoner, if 

was wounded and knocked down, an , ,, > j d and heaten off the assail- 

Henry had not placed himself by his fallen brother ® of the ^ of 

ants. Soon after, a band of eighteen m g * > , . k ° ki p tke King of England, 

Cray, who had bound themselves W1 “ { thege knight3 strack the king with his 
made a furious charge upon • ^ ^ vi()lent that Henry stagge red and fell on 
mace or battle-axe, and t rinsed round him and killed every one of 

his knees ; but his brave men "^^fh n forced his way up to the English 
the eighteen knights. The Duke ot ““ ““ hc beat tlie Duke of York to the 
royal standard. With a b ow o ‘ defend his relative, he hit him over the 

ground • and when enry stood crowtt which he wore on his helmet. But 

head and knocked off part ot , S , k . the English closed upon him ; and, 
this was the last blow that to you-I am the Duke 

seeing his danger, he cried out to the late—the Duke was slam, 

of Alemjon.” Henry held out his hand. It w s tooJate ^ ^ ^ division 

His fall finished the battle for SWO rd, and which was in itself more 
of the French army, which had never d feU back , an d galloped from the 

than double the number of the whole themselve3 with prisoners, 

field. Up to this point the English had ^ number were thus secured, when 

but they now took them m heaps.. . T)r iests of his army were sitting 

Henry heard a terrible noise m is ^ w^ ^ ^ host il e force drawn out in that 
on horseback among the baggage, c . d ^ ision 0 f the French seemed 

* - • - — - *** the 




474 


HALF HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[PENNY MAG. 

rear were only some five or six hundred peasan + s who had entered Maisoncelles and 
had fallen upon the baggage in the hope of obtaining plunder and driving off some 
of the English horses; and what appeared a rallying in front was only a momentary 
halt, for the third division were presently galloping off the field harder than ever. 
As soon as Henry discovered his mistake he gave orders to stop the carnage and to 
look after the wounded. Then, attended by his principal barons, he rode over the 
field, and sent out the heralds, as usual, to examine the coats of arms of the knights 
and princes that had fallen. This was a mournful task ; for sixteen hundred brave 
Englishmen lay upon the field, among whom were the Earl of Suffolk and the Duke 
of York. In their death Shakspere has presented us with a most touching 
picture. 

But much greater and much more frightful was the loss on the side of the French: 
“ never had so many and such noble men fallen in one battle. In all there perished 
on the field eight thousand gentlemen, knights, or squires, including one hundred 
and twenty gre&t lords that had each a banner of his own. The whole chivalry of 
France was cropped. Seven near relations of King Charles—Brabant, Nevers, the 
Duke of Bar and his two brothers, the Constable d’Albret, and Alengon—were all 
slain. Among the most distinguished prisoners, who were far less numerous than 
the dead of the same class, were the Duke of Orleans, the Count of Richemont, 
the Marshal Boucicault, the Duke of Bourbon, the Counts of Eu and Vendome, 
and the Lords of Harcourt and Craon. 

While his people were occupied in stripping the dead, Henry called to him the 
herald of the King of France, the king-at-anns, who was named Mountjoye, and 
with him several other heralds, both English and French, and he said unto them, 
“We have not made this slaughter, but the Almighty, as we believe, for the sins of 
France.” And after this he asked them to whom the honour of the victory was 
due 1 Mountjoye replied, “ To the King of England ; to him ought victory to be 
given, and not to the King of France.” Then Henry asked the name of the castle 
that he saw pretty near to him. They answered that it was called Azincourt. 
“ Then,” quoth Henry, “ since all battles ought to be named after the nearest castle, 
let this battle bear henceforward and lastingly the name of the battle of Azincourt.” 

The Duke of Orleans, who had been dragged out wounded from among the dead, 
was sorely discomfited at the sudden turn affairs had taken. Henry went up to 
console him : “ How fare you, my cousin ? ” said he ; “ and why do you refuse to 
eat and drink ? ” The duke answered that he was determined to fast. “ Not so,— 
make good cheer,” said the king mildly ; “ if God hath given me grace to win this 
victory, I acknowledge that it is through no merits of mine own. I believe that 
God hath willed that the French should be punished ; and if what I have heard be 
true, no wonder at it; for they tell me that never were seen such a disorder, such 
a licence of wickedness, such debauchery, such bad vices as now reign in France. 
It is pitiful and horrible to hear it all, and certes the wrath of the Lord must have 
been awakened ? ” And in truth Henry could hardly have spoken worse of France 
at this time, than it spoke for itself. 

On the next morning, when the English left Maisoncelles, the king and the duke 
of Orleans rode side by side, conversing in a friendly manner. The army passed 
over the field of battle. They stripped some of the bodies, and when they were 
gone some of the neighbouring peasantry came to the scene of horror to do the 
same frightful work. But the Count of Charolais, alterwards Philip the Good 
eldest son of the duke of Burgundy, was at the castle of Aire, not far from the 
field of battle, in which he had been prevented from joining by the strict orders of 
his father; and when he heard the doleful news he was inconsolable, and refused 
to take any nourishment. But he sent the bailiff of Aire and the abbot of Buis- 


THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT. 


475 


PENNY MAG.] 

seauville to superintend the burial of the French, while he himself attended the 
funeral of his two uncles the dukes of Brabant and Nevers. The abbot and the 
bailiff bought twenty-five roods of land, and on this land three immense deep pits 
were dug, and five thousand eight hundred men were cast into them. Then the 
bishop of Guines went down, sprinkled holy water upon the ground, and blessed this 
vast sepulchre of the aristocracy of France. Many hundreds, who had friends 
living near, were buried wfith more decency in the neighbouring churches, or carried 
to their own castles. 

The English conquerors marched slowly on to Calais, for they were heavy laden 
with the weight of their spoil. When they got there Henry called a council of war. 
Sickness still prevailed in his skeleton of an army : disease and want raged in all 
the near provinces of France. He had not only saved his honour, but had gained 
the greatest military glory : he wanted men, he wanted money. All these consi¬ 
derations pointed homeward, and it was determined that he should forthwith return 
to England. 

« Then,” says honest John Stow, “with all vigilance the navy was prepared, and 
by the king’s commandment the lords and great estates of the prisoners of France, 
to a great number, were brought into that ship wherein the king was determined to 
pass the sea. At this their passage the sea was marvellously boisterous and rough, 
insomuch that two of the English ships perished in the floods, by reason whereof 
the French prisoners were so encumbered and vexed that the day of their passage 
seemed to them no less bitter and terrible than that day wherein they were taken 
at Azincourt ; nor they could not marvel enough how the king should have so great 
strength so easily to resist and endure the rage and boisterousness of the sea, 

without accombrance and disease of his stomach ! 

The people of England were literally mad with joy and triumph. At Dover they 
rushed into the sea to meet him, and carried him ashore on their shoulders. Every 
where on his way noblemen, priests, and people came forth to welcome him ; and 
on his entrance into London, the mayor, with the aldermen and crafts, to the num¬ 
ber of four hundred, riding in red, with hoods red and white, met him at Black- 
heath coming from Eltham, and so conducted him in triumph through the city, 
where the gates and streets were garnished and hung with precious cloths of arras, 
and where the people got drunk on something more than joy, for the conduits 
through the city ran none other than good and sweet wines, and that abundantly. 
There were many towers and stages in the streets, richly adorned, and upon the 
height of them sat small children singing praises and lauds unto God ; for King 
Henry would have no ditties made in honour of his victory, but ascribed it wholly 
unto God. Loud were the plaudits of the people in honour of Henry ; and during 
his whole reign there was scarcely a complaint made against him or his ministers 
—nothing beyond a faint expression of regret that his wars in France should keep 
him so long away from his loving subjects. 


ion_THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT. 

Shakspeue. 


Scene I .—The French Camp. 

Enter Dauphin , Orleans , Ramhures, and others. 

Orl. The sun doth gild our armour ; up, my lords. 

Dau. Montez d cheval My horse ! valet! lacquay ! ha. 

Orl. 0 brave spirit ! 





476 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE. 


Dau. Via /—les eaux et la terre — 

Orl. Rien puis ? Vair et la feu — 

Dau. Ciel! cousin Orleans.— 

Enter Constable. 

Now, my lord constable ! 

Con. Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh. 

Dau. Mount them, and make incision in their hides ; 
That their hot blood may spin in English eyes, 

And ioubt them with superfluous courage : Ha ! 

Ram. What, will you have them weep our horses’ blood ? 
How shall we then behold their natural tears % 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. The English are embattled, you French peers. 

Con. To horse, you gallant princes ! straight to horse ! 

Do but behold yon poor and starved band, 

And your fair show shall suck away their souls, 

Leaving them but the shales and husks of men. 

There is not work enough for all our hands ; 

Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins, 

To give each naked curtle-axe a stain, 

That our French gallants shall to-day draw out, 

And sheathe for lack of sport : let us but blow on them, 
The vapour of our valour will o’erturn them. 

’T is positive ’gainst all exceptions, lords, 

That our superfluous lackeys, and our peasants,— 

Who, in unnecessary action, swarm 
About our squares of battle,—were enow 
To purge this field of such a hilding foe : 

Though we upon this mountain’s basis by, 

Took stand for idle speculation : 

But that our honours must not. What’s to say ? 

A very little little let us do, 

And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound 
The tucket-sonaunce and the note to mount : 

For our approach shall so much dare the field, 

That England shall couch down in fear, and yield. 

Enter Grandpre. 

Grand. Why do you stay so long, my lords of France ? 
Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones, 

Ill-favour’dly become the morning field : 

Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose, 

And our air shakes them passing scornfully. 

Big Mars seems bankrout in their beggar’d host, 

And. faintly through a rusty beaver peeps. 

The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks, 

With torch-staves in their hand ; and their poor jades 
Lob down their heads, dropping the hides and hips ; 

The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes ; 

And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit 


THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT. 


477 


BHAKSPERE.] 

Lies foul with chaw’d grass, still and motionless; 

And their executors, the knavish crows, 

Fly o’er them all, impatient for their hour. 

Description cannot suit itself in words, 

To demonstrate the life of such a battle 
In life so lifeless as it shows itself. 

Con. They have said their prayers, and they stay for death. 

Bau. Shall we go send them dinners, and fresh suits, 

And give their fasting horses provender, 

And after fight with them ? 

Con. I stay but for my guidon. To the field : 

I will the banner from a trumpet take, 

And use it for my haste. Come, come away ! 

The sun is high, and we outwear the day. [ Exeunt . 

Scene II.— The English Camp. 

Enter the English Host; Gloster, Bedford , Exeter. Salisbury, and Westmoreland. 
Glo. Where is the king* 1 ? 

Bed. The king himself is rode to view their battle. 

West. Of fighting men they have full threescore thousand. 

Exe. There’s five to one; besides, they all are fresh, 

Sal. God’s arm strike with us ! ’t is a fearful odds. 

God be wi’ you, princes all ; I ’ll to my charge : 

If we no more meet till we meet in heaven, 

Then, joyfully ;—my noble lord of Bedford, 

My dear lord Gloster, and my good lord Exeter, 

And my kind kinsman, warriors all—adieu ! 

Bed. Farewell, good Salisbury : and good luck go with thee! 

Exe. Farewell, kind lord, fight valiantly to-day ; 

And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, 

For thou art fram’d of the firm truth of valour. [Exit Salisbury. 

Bed. He is as full of valour as of kindness ; 

Princely in both. 

West. 0 that we now had here 

Enter King Henry. 

But one ten thousand of those men in England 
That do no work to-day ! 

K. Hen. What’s he that wishes so ? 

My cousin Westmoreland 1 —No, my fair cousin : 

If we are mark’d to die, we are enow 
To do our country loss ; and if to live, 

The fewer men the greater share of honour. 

God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. 

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold ; 

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; 

It yearns me not if men my garments wear ; 

Such outward things dwell not in my desires : 

But if it be a sin to covet honour 
I am the most offending soul alive. 

No, ’faith, my coz, wish not a man from England • 





478 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPEIiB 


God’s peace ! I would not lose so great an honour, 

As one man more, methinks, would share from me ; 

For the best hope I have. 0, do not wish one more : 

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, 

That he which hath no stomach to this fight 
Let him depart ; his passport shall be made, 

And crowns for convoy put into his purse 
We would not die in that man’s company 
That fears his fellowship to die with us. 

This day is call’d the feast of Crispian : 

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, 

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d, 

And rouse him at the name of Crispian. 

He that shall see this day, and live old age, 

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, 

And say, To-morrow is saint Crispian : 

Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars: 

Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, 

But he ’ll remember, with advantages, 

What feats he did that day : Then shall our names 
Familiar in his mouth as household words,— 

Harry the king. Bedford and Exeter, 

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,— 

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d : 

This story shall the good man teach his son ; 

And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, 

From this day to the ending of the world, 

But we in it shall be remembered : 

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; 

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me 
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile, 

This day shall gentle his condition : 

And gentlemen in England, now a-bed, 

Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here ; 

And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks 
That fought with us upon St. Crispin’s day. 

Scene III.— The Field of Battle. 

Enter King Henry and Forces ; Exeter , and others , with prisoner^ 

K. Hen. Well have we done, thrice valiant countrymen : 

But all’s not done, yet keep the French the field. 

Exe. The duke of York commends him to your majesty. 

K. Hen. Lives he, good uncle 1 thrice within this hour 
I saw him down ; thrice up again, and fighting ; 

From helmet to the spur, all blood he was. 

Exe. In which array (brave soldier !) doth he lie, 

Larding the plain : and by his bloody side 
(Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds) 

The noble earl of Suffolk also lies. 

Suffolk first died : and York, all haggled over, 

Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteep’d, 


THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT. 


479 


SHAKSPERE.] 


And takes him by the beard ; kisses the gashes 
That bloodily did yawn upon his face ; 

And cries aloud,—“ Tarry, my cousin Suffolk ! 

My soul shall thine keep company to heaven : 

Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly a-breast ; 

As, in this glorious and well-foughten field, 

We kept together in our chivalry !” 

Upon these words I came, and cheer’d him up ; 

He smil’d me in the face, raught me his hand, 

And with a feeble gripe, says,—“ Dear my lord, 
Commend my service to my sovereign.” 

So did he turn, and over Suffolk’s neck 
He threw his wounded arm, and kiss’d his lips ; 

And so, espous’d to death, with blood he seal’d 
A testament of noble-ending love. 

The pretty and sweet manner of it forc’d 

Those waters from me, which I would have stopp’d ; 

But I had not so much of man in me, 

And all my mother came into mine eyes, 

And gave me up to tears. 

K. Hen. I blame you not; 

For, hearing this, I must perforce compound 
With mistful eyes, or they will issue too.— 

But, hark ! what new alarum is this same ?— 

The French have reinforc’d their scatter’d men :— 
Then every soldier kill his prisoners ; 

Give the word through. 



[ Alarum. 


\Exeunt. 


130.—THE DECAY AND SUBVERSION OF THE ENGLISH DOMINION IN 

FRANCE. From the 4 Penny Cyclopaedia.’ 

Although no nation ever received so great a blow in a single field as France did 
on the fatal day of Agincourt, it was not till after some years that, torn a3 she 
was by the most lamentable civil dissensions, and left nearly without a government, 
that unfortunate country at last consented to receive the yoke of her invader. Har- 
fleur was attacked by the French the following August ; but the attempt was put 
an end to by a great naval victory gained by the duke of Bedford. In September 
Henry passed over to Calais, and there had a secret conference with the head of 
one of the great French factions, John, surnamed Sans-peur, duke of Buigundj, 
with whom there is no doubt that he came to some understanding about the 
employment of their united efforts for the destruction of the Orleanists, who now 
had the government in their hands. It was by thus politically taking ad\ antage 
of the dissensions of his enemies, rather than by any further very brilliant military 
operations, that Henry at last achieved the conquest of France. He returned to 
that country in August, 1417, having under his command a magnificent army of 
about 35,000 men. With this force he soon reduced the whole of Lower -Nor¬ 
mandy. He then laid siege to Rouen, 30th July, 1418, and was detained be ore 
this town till, after a brave resistance, it capitulated on the 16tli of January in t e 
following year. By this time the duke of Burgundy had obtained the ascendancy 
in Paris” and at the court of the incapable Charles and his profligate queen ; and 
he was not now so much disposed as he had probably been two years before to aid 







480 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [PENNY CYCLOPAEDIA. 

the ambitious project of the English king. From Rouen Henry advanced upon 
Paris, on which Burgundy and the queen, taking the king with them, left that city, 
and went, first to Lagny, and afterwards to Provins. It was at last agreed, how¬ 
ever, that a truce should be concluded between the English and the Bourguignons, 
and that Henry should meet the duke, and the king and queen of France, on the 
30th of May. On that day the conference took place on the right bank of the 
Seine, near the town of Meulan. But after being protracted for above a month, 
the negociation was suddenly broken off by the French party ; and then it was dis¬ 
covered that the duke had concluded a treaty with the Dauphin and the faction of 
the Armagnacs. On this Henry immediately resumed his advance upon Paris. 
Meanwhile the hollowness of the apparent reconciliation that had been hastily 
patched up between the two rival factions became abundantly manifest; the formal 
alliance of the chiefs had no effect in uniting their followers. At length, on the 10th 
of September, Burgundy having been induced to meet the Dauphin on the bridge 
of Montereau, was there foully fallen upon and murdered by the attendants, and in 
the presence, of the treacherous prince. From this time the Bourguignons, and 
even the people of Paris, who were attached to that party, looked upon the English 
as their natural allies against the Dauphin and his faction. Philip, the young duke 
of Burgundy, and the queen in the name of her husband, immediately assented to 
all Henry’s demands, which were—the hand of Charles’s eldest daughter, the Prin¬ 
cess Catherine, the present regency of the kingdom, and the succession to the 
throne of France on the death of Charles. It was also arranged that one of Henry’s 
brothers should marry a sister of duke Philip. Several months were spent in the 
settlement of certain minor points ; but at last the treaty of 1 Perpetual Peace,’ as 
it was styled, was completed and signed at Troyes by Queen Isabella and Duke 
Philip, as the commissioners of King Charles, on the 20th of May, L420 ; and on 
the following day the oath to observe it was taken without murmur or hesitation 
by the parliament, the nobility, and deputies from such of the commonalties as 
acknowledged the royal authority. 

Henry’s marriage with Catherine was solemnized on the 2nd June. On the 
second day after he resumed his military occupations, and some months were spent 
in reducing successively the towns of Sens, Montereau, Villeneuve-le-Roi, and Melun. 
On the 18th November Henry and Charles entered Paris together in triumph, and 
here the treaty of Troyes was unanimously confirmed (10th December) in an 
assembly of the three estates of the kingdom. Henry soon after set out with his 
queen for England, and on the 2nd February, 1421, entered London amidst such 
pageants and popular rejoicings as that capital had never before witnessed. 

He did not, however, remain long at home. On the 22nd March his brother, 
the duke of Clarence, whom he had left governor of Normandy, was defeated in a 
battle fought at Baugd, in Anjou, by a force chiefly composed of a body of Scottish 
auxiliaries under the earl of Buchan, who slew Clarence with his own hand, an 
exploit for which the Dauphin conferred upon the Scottish earl the office of con¬ 
stable of France. This victory appears to have produced a wonderful effect in 
reanimating the almost broken spirits and extinguished hopes of the Dauphin’s 
party. Feeling that his presence was wanted in France, Henry again set sail for 
Calais in the beginning of June, taking with him a Scottish force commanded by 
Archibald, earl of Douglas, and also his prisoner, the Scottish king, to whom he 
promised his liberty as soon as they should have returned to England. His wonted 
success attended him in this new expedition ; and he drove the Dauphin before 
him, from one place after another, till he forced him to retire to Bourges, in Berry. 
He then, after taking the strong town of Meaux, which cost him a siege of seven 
months, proceeded to Paris, which he entered with great pomp, 30th May, 1422, 


PENNY CYCLO.] THE DECAY OF THE ENGLISH DOMINION IN FRANCE. 48\ 

accompanied by bis queen, who bad come over to joinliim, after having given birth 
to a son at Windsor Castle on the 6th of the preceding December. But the end 
of Henry’s triumphant career was now at hand. The Dauphin and the constable 
Buchan having again advanced from the south, and laid siege to the town of Cosne, 
Henry, though ill at the time, set out to relieve that place, but was unable to pro¬ 
ceed farther than Corbeil, about twenty miles from Paris, when, resigning the com¬ 
mand to his brother, the duke of Bedford, he was carried back in a litter to the 
Bois de Vincennes, in the vicinity of the capital, and there, after an illness of about 
a month, he breathed his last, on the 31st of August, in the 34th year of his age, 
and the 10th of his reign. 

It is unnecessary in the present day to waste a word on either the injustice or the 
folly of the enterprise on which Henry thus threw away the whole of his reign. In 
estimating his character it is of more importance to remember that the folly and 
injustice, which are now so evident, were as little perceived at that day by his 
subjects in general as by himself, and that there can be no doubt whatever that 
both he and they thought he was, in the assertion of his fancied rights to the 
crown of France, pursuing both a most important and a most legitimate object. 
That motives of personal ambition mingled their influence in his views and pro¬ 
ceedings must no doubt be admitted ; but that is perfectly consistent with honesty 
of purpose, and a thorough belief in the rightness both of the object sought, and 
the means employed to secure it. In following the bright though misleading idea 
that had captivated him, he certainly displayed many endowments of the loftiest 
and most admirable kind—energy, both of body and mind, which no fatigue could 
quell ; the most heroic gallantry ; patience and endurance, watchfulness and activity, 
steadiness, determination, policy, and other moral constituents, as they may be 
called, of genius, as well as mere military skill and resources. Nor does any 
weighty imputation dim the lustre of these virtues. His slaughter of his prisoners 
at the battle of Azincourt, almost the only stigma that rests upon his memory, 
was an act of self-preservation, justified by what appeared to be the circumstances 
in which he was placed. No monarch evoT occupied a throne who was more the 
idol of his subjects than Henry V. ; nor is any trace to be found of popular dissa¬ 
tisfaction with any part of his government, from the beginning to the end of his 
reign. 

Henry VI. was not quite nine months old when the death of his father left him 
king of England. In the settlement of the government which took place upon the 
accession of the infant king, the actual administration of affairs in England was 
entrusted to the younger of his two uncles, Humphrey, popularly called ‘ The Good,’ 
duke of Gloucester, as substitute for the elder, John, duke of Bedford, who was ap¬ 
pointed president of the council, but who remained in France, taking his late 
brother’s place as regent of that kingdom. Gloucester’s title was ‘ Protector of the 
Realm and Church of England.’ The care of the person and education of the king 
was some time after committed to Richard de Beauchamp, earl of Warwick, and to 
the king’s great uncle, bishop (afterwards cardinal) Henry Beaufort. 

The history of the earlier and longer portion of this reign is the history of the 
gradual decay and final subversion of the English dominion in France. The death 
of Henry V. was followed in a few weeks (22nd October) by that of his father-in- 
law, the imbecile Charles VI. Immediately on this event the Dauphin was acknow¬ 
ledged by his adherents as Charles VII. ; and Henry VI. was also proclaimed in 
Paris, and wherever the English power prevailed, as king of France. The next 
events of importance that occurred were the two great victories of Crevant and "V er- 
neuil obtained by the English over the French and their Scottish allies, the former 

on the 31st of July, 1423, the latter on the 17th of August, 1424. In the interim 

i I 




482 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [PENNY CYCLO. 

king James of Scotland, after his detention of nearly twenty years, had been released 
by the English council, and had returned to his native country after marrying a 
near connexion of the royal family, the Lady Jane Beaufort, daughter of 
the duke of Somerset. One of the engagements made by James on his liberation 
was that he should not permit any more of his subjects to enter into' the service of 
France : the Scots who were already there were for the most part destroyed a few 
months afterwards in the slaughter of Yerneuil. 

This however was the last great success obtained by the English in France. 
From this time their dominion began to loosen and shake, and then to crumble 
faster and faster away, until it fell wholly to ruin. The first thing which materially 
contributed to unsettle it was the disgust given to the duke of Burgundy by the 
marriage of the duke of Gloucester with Jacqueline of Hainault, and their subse¬ 
quent invasion and seizure of her hereditary states, then held by her former husband 
John, duke of Brabant, who was the cousin of the duke of Burgundy. Although 
Burgundy, on being left to pursue his quarrel with Jacqueline, whom he soon suc¬ 
ceeded in crushing, after she had been abandoned by Gloucester, did not go the 
length of openly breaking with the English on acocunt of this matter, his attach¬ 
ment was never afterwards to be much relied upon, and he merely waited for a 
favourable occasion to change sides. Meanwhile another of the most powerful of 
the English allies, the duke of Brittany, openly declared for Charles VII. Other 
embarrassments also arose about the same time out of the mutual jealousies and 
opposition of Gloucester and Bishop Beaufort, which at last blazed up into open 
and violent hostility. It required all the moderating prudence and steadiness of 
the duke of Bedford to break as much as possible the shock of these various adverse 
occurrences. For some years accordingly he had enough to do in merely maintain¬ 
ing his actual position. It was not till the close of 1428 that he proceeded to 
attempt the extension of the English authority beyond the Loire. With this view 
the siege of Orleans was commenced on the 12th of October in that year by the 
earl of Salisbury, and, on his death from a wound, received a few weeks after, car¬ 
ried on by the earl of Suffolk. The extraordinary succession of events that followed 
—the'appearance of Joan of Arc on the scene ; her arrival in the besieged city 
(29th April, 1429) ; the raising of the siege (8th May) ; the defeat of the English 
at the battle of Patay (18th June) ; the coronation of king Charles at Rheims (15th 
July) ; the attack on Paris (12th September) ; the capture of Joan at Compiegne 
(25th May, 1430) ; her trial and execution at Rouen (30th May, 1431)—all belong 
to the singular story of the heroic maid. 

The young King of England, now in his ninth year, had in the meantime been 
Drought to Rouen (May, 1430), and was about a year and a half afterwards solemnly 
crowned at Paris (17th December, 1431). The death of the duchess of Bedford, 
the sister of the Duke of Burgundy, in November, 1432, and the marriage of Bed¬ 
ford in May of the following year with Jacquetta of Luxembourg, aided materially 
in still further detaching Burgundy from the English connection, till, his remaining 
scruples gradually giving way under his resentment, in September, 1435, he con¬ 
cluded a peace with king Charles. This important transaction was managed at a 
great congress of representatives from all the sovereign powers of Europe assembled 
at Arras, with the view of effecting a general peace under the mediation of the pope. 
On the 14th of September, a few days after the treaty between Charles and Bur¬ 
gundy had been signed, but before it was proclaimed, died the great duke of Bedford. 
This event gave the finishing blow to the dominion of the English in France. In 
April, 1436, the English garrison in Paris was compelled to capitulate. The 
struggle lingered on for about fifteen years more ; but although some partial suc¬ 
cesses, and especially the brilliant exertions of the famous Talbot (afterwards earl 


PENNY CYCLO.] THE DECAY OF THE ENGLISH DOMINION IN FRANCE. 483 

of Shrewsbury), in Normandy and elsewhere, gave a check from time to time to 
the progressive dissolution of the English power, the prevailing current of events 
r 3 n decidedly in the contrary direction. In 1444 a truce was agreed upon, to last 
till 1st April, 1446 ; and in this interval a marriage was arranged between king 
Henry and Margaret, the beautiful daughter of Rene, king of Sicily and Jerusalem, 
and duke of Anjou, Maine, and Bar. These lofty dignities however were all merely 
titular ; with all his kingdoms and dukedoms, Ren6 was at this time nearly desti¬ 
tute both of land and revenue. Thus circumstanced, in return for the hand of his 
daughter, he demanded the restoration of his hereditary states of Maine and Anjou, 
which were in the possession of the English, and the proposal was at length assented 
to. Nor was this cession of territory the only thing that tended from the first to 
excite popular feeling in England against the marriage. Margaret was a near rela¬ 
tion of the French king, and had been in great part brought up at the court of 
Charles. The connexion therefore seemed to be one thoroughly French in spirit, 
and it is no wonder that the earl of Suffolk, by whom it had been negotiated, be- 
became from this time the object of much general odium and suspicion, the more 
especially when it was found that Margaret, who soon evinced both commanding 
talent and a most imperious temper, distinguished him by every maik of hei favour 
and made him almost exclusively her confidential adviser and assistant in winding 
to her purposes her feeble and pliant husband. The marriage was solemnized in 
the abbey of Tichfield, 22nd April, 1445, Suffolk having a few months before, on 
the conclusionof the negotiations, been created a marquess. The truce with France 
was now prolonged till the 1st of April, 1449. The first remarkable event that 
followed was the destruction of the duke of Gloucester, who, although he appears 
not to have openly opposed the marriage, was certainly the most formidable obstacle 
m the way of the complete ascendancy of Suffolk and the queen. Having been 
arrested on a charge of high treason, lltli February, 1447, he was on the seven¬ 
teenth day thereafter found dead in his bed. In the popular feeling, which however 
may very possibly have been mistaken, nis death was generally attributed to me 
agency of Suffolk, who now, raised to the dignity of duke, became, ostensibly as well 

as really, prime, or rather sole minister. . , 

Soon after hostilities were renewed in France, and a numerous force having been 
poured by king Charles into Normandy, through the adjacent country of Maine, no 
longer a hostile frontier, town after town was speedily reduced, till at last Kouen, 
the capital, surrendered, 4th November, 1449. Early in the next year anot er 
heavy reverse was sustained in the defeat of Sir Thomas Kyriel at Fourmigny; and 
at last the fall of Cherbourg, 12th August, 1450, completed the loss of the due ly. 
Before this catastrophe however the public indignation in England had swept, away 
the unhappy minister on whose head all this accumulation of disasters and disgraces 
was laid ; the duke of Suffolk, after having been committed to the Tower, on the 
impeachment of the House of Commons, and banished from the kingdom by 
judgment of his peers, was seized as he was sailing across from Dover to Calais an 1 
being carried on board one of the king’s ships, was there detained for a 
and Tat last had bis head struck off by an executioner who came alongside m a boa 
from the shore May 2nd, 1450. The murder of Suffolk was immediately followed 
by a popular insurrection, unparalleled in its extent and violence since the rebellion 
of Wat Tyler, seventy years before. Before the close of the 
F-ench in addition to Normandy, had recovered all Guienne ; and with the excep 
tion of ell not a foot of ground remained to England of all her recent continental 
possession^! Bordeaux, which had been subject to the English government for ■thre 
centuries and a half, revolted the following year; and the brave Talbot, now lg J 






484 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[PENNY CTCLO. 


years of age, was sent to Guienne to take advantage of that ““tier’foW 
he and his son fell in battle, .Oth July, 1453 ; and on the 10th of October lollow 

ing Bordeaux surrendered to Charles. 


131.-THE SLAUGHTER OE THE PRISONERS AT AOIOTOUOT.^ 

The name of Henry of Monmouth is inseparable from battle of ^S^ c0 “ rt ’ 
and immeasurably better had it been for lus fair fame had b™,elf mdh ■ tU 
army been crushed in that tremendous struggle, by the overwhelming c y 

France,^han that he should have stained that day of conquest and S-y >ay - a t 
of cruelty or vengeance. If any cause except palpable and inevitable necessity 
be proved to have suggested the dreadful mandate for Ins soldiers to put t ei p - 
soners to tiie sword, his memory must be branded by a stigma which no personal 
courage not a whole life devoted to deeds of arms, nor any unprecedented career 
of commest, could obliterate. The charge of cruelty, however, ike some other 

accusations, examined at length in these memoirs is of comparative y recent oi g 

and as in those former instances, after 

Our abhorrence of the crime may well make us Hesitate before^l^Xarks bofe 
ment against one to whose mercy and chivalrous honour his contempoianes bore 

willing "and abundant testimony ; the enormity of so dread ul an ^ am ^ e C ^ P ® 
us in the name of humanity aad of justice, not to screen the guilty. We may be 
wisely jealous of the bias and prejudice which his brilliant talents and his 1 
patriotism and glory, may unconsciously communicate to our minds ; we must be 
also upon our guard lest an excessive resolution to do justice, foster imperceptibly a 

morbid acquiescence in the condemnation of the accused. 

The facts, then, as they are gleaned from those authors who wrote nearest to t e 
time (two of whom are French, the other English, were actually themselves present 
on the field of battle, and were eye-witnesses of some portion at least of the circum¬ 
stances which they narrate,) seem to have been these, m their order and character 
At the close of one of the most desperate struggles ever recorded in the annals of 
antient or modern warfare, whilst the enemy were m the. act of quitting the fiela, but 
had not left it, the English were employing what remained of their we mg ex¬ 
hausted strength in guarding their prisoners, and separating the living from the dead, 
who lay upon each other, heaps upon heaps, m one confused and indiscriminate mass. 
On a sudden a shout was raised, and reached Henry, that a fresh reinforcement of 
the enemy in overwhelming numbers bad attacked the baggage, and were advancing 
in battle array against him. He was himself just released from the furious conflict 
in which at the close of his almost unparalleled personal exertion, he engaged with 
the Duke of Alen§on, and slew him on the spot. Precisely, also, at this juncture, 
the main body of the French who had been engaged in the battle, and were appa¬ 
rently retreating, were seen to be collecting in great numbers, and forming them¬ 
selves into bodies throughout the plain, with the purpose, as it appeared, of leturning 

to the engagement. , . . , , . ,, 

To delay might have been the total sacrifice of himself and his gallant little 

band ; to hesitate might have been death. Henry instantly, without a moment s 

interval by sound of trumpet ordered his men to form themselves, and attack the 

’body who were advancing upon his rear, and to put the prisoners to death, “ lest 

they should rush upon his men during the fight.” These mandates were obeyed 




REV. J. E. TYLER.] THE SLAUGHTER OF THE PRISONERS AT AGINCOURT. 485 

The French reinforcement, advancing from the quarter where the baggage was sta¬ 
tioned, no sooner felt a shower of arrows, and saw a body of men ready to give 
them battle, than they turned to flight; and instantly Henry, on seeing them run, 
stopped the slaughter of the prisoners, and made it known to all that he had had 
recourse to the measure only in self-defence. Henry, in order to prevent the re¬ 
currence of such a dreadful catastrophe, sent forthwith a herald to those companies 
of the enemy who were still lingering very suspiciously through the field, and 
charged them either to come to battle at once, or to withdraw from his sight; 
adding, that, should they array themselves afterwards to renew the battle, he would 
show no mercy, nor spare either fighting-men or prisoners. 

.Of the general accuracy of this statement of the facts little doubt can be enter¬ 
tained, though in the midst of the confusion of such a battle-field it would not be 
matter of surprise were some of the circumstances mistaken or exaggerated. In 
reflecting on this course of incidents, the thought forces itself upon our mind, that 
the mandate was given not in cool blood, nor when there was time and opportunity 
for deliberation and for calculating upon the means and chances of safety, but upon 
the instant, on a sudden unexpected renewal of the engagement from a quarter 
from which no danger was anticipated ; at a moment, too, when, just after the heat 
of the battle was passing over, the routed enemy were collecting again in great 
numbers in various parts of the field, with a view evidently of returning to the 
charge and crushing their conquerors ; at a moment, too, when the English were 
scattered about, separating the living from the dead, and all was yet confusion and 
uncertainty. Another fact, as clearly and distinctly recorded as the original issuing 
of the mandate, is, that no sooner was the danger of the immediate and inevitable 
sacrifice of the lives of his men removed by the retreat of the assailants, than, 
without waiting for the dispersion of those menacing bodies then congregating 
around him, Henry instantly countermanded the order, and saved the remainder 
of the prisoners. The bare facts of the case, from first to last, admit of no other 
alternative than for our judgment to pronounce it to have been altogether an im¬ 
perative inevitable act of self-preservation, without the sacrifice of any life, or the 
suffering of any human being, beyond the absolute and indispensable necessity of 
the case. 

But, perhaps, the most striking and conclusive testimony in vindication of 
Henry’s character on that day of slaughter and victory, is borne both by the silence 
and also by the expressed sentiments of the contemporary historians. This evidence 
deserves to be put more prominently forward than it has ever yet been. Indeed, 
as long as there was no charge of cruelty, or unnecessary violence, brought against 
his name in this particular, there was little need of alleging any evidence in his 
defence. It remained for modern writers, after a lapse of centuries, to stigmatize 
the command as an act of barbarity, and to represent it as having tarnished and 
stained the victory of him who gave it. It is, however, a most remarkable and 
satisfactory circumstance that, of the contemporary historians, and those who fol¬ 
lowed most closely upon them, who have detailed the proceedings with more or 
less minuteness, and with a great variety though no inconsistency of circumstances, 
in whose views, moreover, all subsequent writers, with few exceptions, have unre¬ 
servedly acquiesced, not one single individual is found to cast the slightest impu¬ 
tation on Henry for injustice or cruelty ; while some, in their account of the 
battle, have not made the most distant allusion to the circumstance. All the 
earlier writers who refer to it appear, with one consent, to have considered the 
order as the result of dire and unavoidable necessity on the part of the English 
king. Hot only so : whilst no one who witnessed the engagement, or lived at the 
time, ever threw the shadow of reproach or of complaint on Henry or his army, 







486 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [REV. J. E. TYLER 

various writers, especially among the French historians, join in reprobating the un¬ 
justifiable conduct of those among the French troops who rendered the massacre 
inevitable, and cast on their own countrymen the entire responsibility and blame 
for the whole melancholy affair. Instead of any attempt to sully and tarnish the 
glory won by the English on that day, by pointing to their cruel and barbarous 
treatment of unarmed prisoners, they visit their own people with the very strongest 
terms of malediction, as the sole culpable origin and cause of the evil. And that 
these were not only the sentiments of the writers themselves, but were participated 
in by their countrymen at large, is evidenced by the record of a fact which has 
been generally overlooked. Those who were deemed guilty of thus exposing their 
countrymen to death, by unjustifiably renewing the attack when the conflict was 
acknowledged to be over, and after the French soldiery had given up the field, not 
only were exposed to disgrace in their characters, but suffered punishment also for 
the offence in their persons. Anticipating censure and severe handling as the 
consequences of their misconduct, they made valuable presents to such as they 
thought able to screen them ; but so decided was the indignation and resentment 
of their countrymen, that the leaders of the offending parties were cast into prison, 
and suffered a long confinement, as the punishment for their misconduct on 
that day. 

The inference, then, which the facts, as they are delivered by English and French 
writers, compel us to draw, coincides with the professed sentiments of all contem¬ 
poraries. Those, on the one hand, who shared the'glory and were proud of the 
day of Agincourt, and those, on the other, whose national pride and wounded 
honour, and participation in the calamities poured that day upon the noblest 
families of France, and in the mourning spread far and wide throughout the land, 
caused them to abhor the very name of Agincourt, all sanction our adoption of 
that one inference : Henry did not stain his victory by any act of cruelty. His 
character comes out of the investigation untarnished by a suspicion of his having 
wantonly shed the blood of a single fellow-creature. 


132.—THE DEATH OF JOHN TALBOT AND HIS SON. 

Shakspere. 

“ This is that terrible Talbot, so famous for his sword, or rather whose sword was so famous 
for his arm that used it; a sword with bad Latin* upon it, but good steel within it; which 
constantly conquered where it came, in so much that the bare fame of his approach frighted 
the French from the siege of Bordeaux.” 

Such is the quaint notice which old Fuller, in his ‘Worthies,’ gives of Talbot. It is easy to 
see how his bold chivalrous bearing, and, above all, the manner of his death, should have 
made him the favourite of the poet as well as of the chroniclers. His name appears to have 
been a traditionary household word up to the time of Shakspere; and other writers, besides 
the chroniclers, rejoiced in allusions to his warlike deeds. Edward Kerke, the commentator 
on Spenser’s ‘ Pastorals,’ thus speaks of him in 1579 “ His nobleness bred such a terror 

in the hearts of the French, that ofttimes great armies were defeated and put to flight at the 
only hearing of his name: in so much that the Frenchwomen, to affray their children, would 
tell them that the Talbot cometh.” 

The coronation of Henry VI. in Paris took place as early as 1431. In the scene of Shak- 
spere’s ‘ Henry VI.’ where this event is represented, Talbot receives a commission to proceed 
against Burgundy; and the remainder of the Act is occupied with the events of the campaign 
in which Talbot fell. Twenty years, or more, are leapt over by the poet, for the purpose of 
showing, amidst the disasters of our countrymen in France, the heroism by which the struggle 
for empire was so long maintained. The detailed narrative which Hall gives of Talbot’s 


* Sum Talboti pro vincere inimicos meos. 



BHAKSPERE.] THE DEATH OF JOHN TALBOT AND HIS SON. 487 

death, is very graphic, and no doubt furnished the materials for the following scenes, which 
give the most beautiful example of the use of the couplet in the early English drama. 

“ This conflict continued in doubtful judgment of victory two long hours ; during which 
fight the lords of Montamban and Humadayre, with a great company of Frenchmen, entered 
the battle, and began a new field ; and suddenly the gunners, perceiving the Englishmen to 
approach near, discharged their ordinance, and slew three hundred persons near to the Earl, 
who, perceiving the imminent jeopardy and subtile labyrinth in the which he and his people 
were enclosed and illaqueate, despising his own safeguard, and desiring the life of his en¬ 
tirely and well beloved son the Lord Lisle, willed, advertised, and counselled him to depart 
out of the field, and to save himself. But when the son had answered that it was neither 
honest nor natural for him to leave his father in the extreme jeopardy of his life, and that 
he would taste of that draught which his father and parent should assay and begin, the 
noble earl and comfortable captain said to him, Oh, son, son ! I, thy father, which, only 
hath been the terror and scourge of the French people so many years,—which had subverted 
so many towns, and profligate and discomfited so many of them in open battle and martial 
conflict,—neither can here die, for the honour of my country, without great laud and per¬ 
petual fame, nor fly or depart without perpetual shame and continual infamy. But because 
this is thy first journey and enterprise, neither thy flying shall redound to thy shame, nor 
thy death to thy glory : for as hardy a man wisely flieth as a temerarious person foolishly 
abideth, therefore the fleeing of me shall be the dishonour, not only of me and my progeny, 
but also a discomfiture of all my company : thy departure shall save thy life, and make thee 
able another time, if I be slain, to revenge my death, and to do honour to thy piince and 
profit to his realm. But nature so wrought in the son, that neither desire of life, nor 
thought of security, could withdraw or pluck him from his natural father; who, considering 
the constancy of his child, and the great danger that they stood in, comforted his soldiers, 
cheered his captains, and valiantly set on his enemies, and slew of them more in number 
than he had in his company. But his enemies, having a greater company of men, and more 
abundance of ordinance, than before had been seen in a battle, first shot him through the 
thmh with a hand gun, and slew his horse, and cowardly killed him, lying on the ground, 
whom they never durst look in the face while he stood on his feet: and with him there died 
manfully his son the Lord Lisle, his bastard son Henry Talbot, and Sir Edward Hull, elect 
to the noble Order of the Garter, and thirty valiant personages of the English nation; and 
the Lord Molyns was there taken prisoner with sixty other, I he residue of the English 
people fled to Burdeaux and other places; whereof in the flight were slain about a thousand 
persons At this battle of Chastillon, fought the 13th day of July, in this year, ended Ins 
life Lord John Talbot, and of his progeny the first Earl of Shrewsbury, after that he with 
much fame, more glory, and most victory, had for his prince and country, by the space of 
twenty-four years and more, valiantly made war and served the king in the paits beyond tha 
sea, whose corpse was left on the ground, and after was found by his friends, and con\eyed 
to Whitchurch in Shropshire, where it is intumulate. 

Scene I.— The English Camp near Bourdeaux. 

Enter Talbot and John his Son. 

Tal. 0 young John Talbot! I did send for thee, 

To tutor thee in stratagems of war ; 

That Talbot’s name might be in thee revived, 

When sapless age, and weak unable limbs, 

Should bring thy father to his drooping chair. 

But,—0 malignant and ill-boding stars ! 

Now thou art come unto a feast of death, 

A terrible and unavoided danger : 

Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse; 

And I ’ll direct thee how thou shalt escape 
By sudden flight: come, dally not, begone. 

John. Is my name'Talbot 1 and am I your son % 

And shall I fly ? 0, if you love my mother, 




488 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


Dishonour not her honourable name, 

To make a bastard and a slave of me : 

The world will say,—He is not Talbot’s blood, 

That basely fled, when noble Talbot stood. 

Tal. Fly, to revenge my death, if 1 be slain. 

John. He that flies so will ne’er return again. 

Tal. If we both stay, we both are sure to die. 

John. Then let me stay ; and father, do you fly : 

Your loss is great, so your regard should be ; 

My worth unknown, no loss is known in me. 

Upon my death the French can little boast ; 

In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost. 

Flight cannot stain the honour you have won ; 

But mine it will, that no exploit have done: 

You fled for vantage, every one will swear ; 

But, if I bow, they ’ll say it was for fear. 

There is no hope that ever I will stay, 

If the first hour I shrink, and run away. 

Here, on my knee, I beg mortality, 

Bather than life preserv’d with infamy. 

Tal. Shall all thy mother’s hopes lie in one tomb 1 
John. Ay, rather than I ’ll shame my mother’s womb. 

Tal. Upon my blessing I command thee go. 

John. To fight I will, but not to fly the foe. 

Tal. Part of thy father may be sav’d in thee. 

John. No part of him but will be shame in me. 

Tal. Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not lose it. 1 
John. Yes, your renowned name : Shall flight abuse it ? 

Tal. Thy father’s charge shall clear thee from that stain. 

John. You cannot witness for me, being slain. 

If death be so apparent, then both fly 

Tal. And leave my followers here, to fight and die 1 
My age was never tainted with such shame. 

John. And shall my youth be guilty of such blame 1 
No more can I be sever’d from your side, 

Than can yourself yourself in twain divide : 

Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I; 

For live I will not if my father die. 

Tal. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son, 

Born to eclipse, thy life this afternoon. 

Come, side by side together live and die ; 

And soul with soul from France to heaven fly. [Exeunt 

Scene II. —A Field of Battle. 

Alarum : Excursions , wherein Talbot's Son is hemmed about, and Talbot 

rescues him. 

Tal. Saint George and victory ! > fight, soldiers, fight: 

The regent hath with Talbot broke his word, 

And left us to the rage of France his sword. 

Where is John Talbot 1—pause, and take thy breath ; 

1 gave thee life, and rescued thee from death. 




BITAKSPERE.] 


THE DEATH OF JOHN TALBOT AND HIS SON. 


489 


John, 0 twice my father ! twice am I thy son: 

The life thou gav’st me first was lost and done; 

Till with thy warlike sword, despite of fate, 

To my determin’d, time thou gav’st new date. 

Tal. When from the dauphin’s crest thy sword struck fire, 
It warmed thy father’s heart with proud desire 
Of bold-fac’d victory. Then leaden age, 

Quicken’d with youthful spleen and warlike rage, 

Beat down Alengon, Orleans, Burgundy, 

And from the pride of Gallia rescued thee. 

The ireful bastard Orleans—that drew blood 
From thee, my boy ; and had the maidenhood 
Of thy first fight—I soon encountered ; 

And, interchanging blows, I quickly shed 
Some of his bastard blood ; and, in disgrace, 

Bespoke him thus : “ Contaminated, base, 

And misbegotten blood I spill of thine. 

Mean and right poor; for that pure blood of mine, 

Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy ; ”— 

Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy, 

Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father s care ; 

Art thou not weary, John ? How didst thou fare ? 

Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly, 

Now thou art sealed the son of chivalry ? 

Fly, to revenge my death, when I am dead ; 

The help of one stands me in little stead. 

0, too much folly is it, well I wot, 

To hazard all our lives in one small boat. 

If I to-day die not with Frenchmen’s rage, 

To-morrow I shall die with mickle age: 

By me they nothing gain an if I stay, 

’T is but the short’ning of my life one day : 

In thee thy mother dies, our household’s name, 

My death revenge, thy youth, and England s fame : 

All these, and more, we hazard by thy stay ; 

All these are sav’d if thou wilt fly away. 

John. The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart ; 
These words of yours draw life-blood from my heart; 

On that advantage, bought with such a shame, 

(To save a paltry life, and slay bright fame,) 

Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly, 

The coward horse that bears m'e fall and die : 

And like me to the peasant boys of France ; 

To be shame’s scorn, and subject of mischance. 

Surely, by all the glory you have won, 

An if I fly I am not Talbot’s son : 

Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot; 

If son to Talbot, die at fialbots foot. 

Tal. Then follow thou thy desperate sire of Crete, 

Thou Icarus ; thy life to me is sweet. 

If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father’s side ; 

And, commendable prov’d, let’s die in pride. 


[Exeunt. 





490 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKfiPERE 


Scene III.— Another part of the same. 

Alarum: Excursions. Enter Talbot wounded , supported by a Servant. 

Tal. Where is my other life ?—mine own is gone ;— 

0, where *s young Talbot 1 where is valiant John \ 

Triumphant death, smear’d with captivity, 

Young Talbot’s valour makes me smile at thee. 

When he perceiv’d me shrink, and on my knee, 

His bloody sword he brandish’d over me, 

And, like a hungry lion, did commence 
Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience ; 

But when my angry guardant stood alone, 

Tend’ring my ruin, and assail’d of none, 

Dizzy-ey’d fury, and great rage of heart, 

Suddenly made him from my side to start 
Into the clust’ring battle of the French : 

And in that sea of blood my boy did drench 
His over-mounting spirit ; and there died 
My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride. 

Enter Soldiers , bearing the body of John Talbot. 

Serv. 0 my dear lord ! lo, where your son is borne ! 

Tal. Thou antic death, which laugh’st us here to scorn, 

Anon, from thy insulting tyranny, 

Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, 

Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, 

In thy despite shall ’scape mortality. 

O thou whose wounds become hard-favour’d death, 

Speak to thy father, ere thou yield thy breath : 

Brave death by speaking, whether he will or no \ 

Imagine him a Frenchman, and thy foe. 

Poor boy ! he smiles, methinks ; as who should say, 

Had death been French, then death had died to-day. 

Come, come, and lay him in his father’s arms ; 

My spirit can no longer bear these harms. 

Soldiers, adieu ! I have what I would have, 

N ow my old arms are young John Talbot’s grave. [Dies. 


133.—THE SIEGE OF ORLEANS. 

Shakspere. 

[The narrative of Holinshed of the first interview of Joan of Arc with Charles VII is ag 
follows :— 

In time of this siege at Orleans, unto Charles the Dauphin, at Chinon, as he was in very 
great care and study how to wrestle against the English nation, by one Peter Badrieourt, 
captain of Vacouleur (made after marshal of France by the Dauphin’s creation;, was carried 
a young wench of an eighteen years old, called Joan Arc, byname of her father (a sorry shep¬ 
herd), James of Arc, and Isabella her mother, brought up poorly in their trade of keening 
cattle, born atDomprin (therefore reported by Bale, Joan Domprin), upon Meuse in Lorraine* 
within the diocese of Thoule. Of favour was she counted likesome, of person strongly made 
and manly, of courage great, hardy, and stout withal, an understander of counsels though she 
were not at them, great semblance of chastity both of body and behaviour, the name of Jesus 
in her mouth about all her businesses, humble, obedient, and fasting divers days in the week. 
A person (as their books make her; raised up by power divine, only for succour to the French 



THE SIEGE OF ORLEANS. 


491 


SHAKSPERE.] 

estate, then deeply in distress, in whom, for planting a credit the rather, first the company 
that towards the Dauphin did conduct her, through places all dangerous, as held by the 
English, where she never was afore, all the way and by nightertale* safely did she lead : then 
at the Dauphin’s sending by her assignment, from Saint Katherine’s church of Fierbois in 
Touraine (where she never had been and knew not), in a secret place there, among old iron, 
appointed she her sword to be sought out and brought her, that with five fleur-de-lis was 
graven on both sides, wherewith she fought and did many slaughters by her own hands. In 
warfare rode she in armour, cap-a-pie, and mustered as a man, before her an ensign all white, 
wherein was Jesus Christ painted with a fleur-de-lis in his hand. 

“ Unto the Dauphin into his gallery when first she was brought, and he shadowing himself 
behind, setting other gay lords before him to try her cunning from all the company, with a 
salutation (that indeed was all the matter) she picked him out alone, who thereupon had her 
to the end of the gallery, where she held him an hour in secret and private talk, that of his 
privy chamber was thought very long, and therefore would have broken it off; but he made 
them a sign to let her say on. In which (among other), as likely it was, she set out unto him 
the singular feats (forsooth) given her to understand by revelation divine, that in virtue of 
that sword she should achieve, which were, how with honour and victory she would raise the 
siege at Orleans, set him in state of the crown of France, and drive the English out of the 
country, thereby he to enjoy the kingdom alone. Hereupon he hearkened at lull, appointed 
her a sufficient army with absolute power to lead them, and they obediently to do as she 
bade them.” , 

Scene. Before Orleans. 

Enter Charles , with his forces ; Alengon, Reignier, and others. 

Char. Mars his true moving, even as in the heavens, 

So in the earth, to this day is not known; 

Late did he shine upon the English side ; 

Now we are victors, upon us he smiles. 

What towns of any moment but we have ? 

At pleasure here we lie near Orleans ; 

Otherwhiles, the famish’d English, like pale ghosts 
Faintly besiege us one hour in a month. 

Alen. They want their porridge and their fat bull beeves : 

Either they must be dieted like mules, 

And have their provender tied to their mouths, 

Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice. 

Reig. Let’s raise the siege : Why live we idly here ? 

Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear: 

Remaineth none but mad-brain’d Salisbury ; 

And he may well in fretting spend his gall, 

Nor men nor money hath he to make war. 

Char. Sound, sound alarum ; we will rush on them. 

Now for the honour of the forlorn French ;— 

Him I forgive my death that killeth me, 

When he sees me go back one foot, or fly. Exeunt . 

Alarums. They are beaten bach by the English ,, with great loss. Re-enter Charles ,, 

Alengon, Reignier and others. 

Char. Whoever saw the like 1 what men have 1 1 —■ 

Dogs! cowards ! dastards 1 —I would ne’er have fled, 

But that they left me midst my enemies. 

* Night-time. The word is in Chaucer.— 

« So hote he loved, that by nightertalo 
He slept no more than doth the nightingale.” 

Tyrwhitt .explains it as derived from the Saxon nighteru duel, -nocturna porti o. 








492 


HALF-HOURS OB ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE. 


Reig. Salisbury is a desperate homicide ; 

He fightetli as one weary of his life. 

The other lords, like lions wanting food, 

Do rush upon us as their hungry prey. 

Alen. Froissart, a countryman of ours, records, 

England all Olivers and Rowlands bred 
During the time Edward the third did reign. 

More truly now may this be verified j 
For none but Samsons and Goliasses, 

It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten ! 

Lean raw-bon’d rascals ! who would e’er suppose 
They had such courage and audacity f 

Char. Let’s leave this town ; for they are hair-brain’d slaves, 
And hunger will enforce them to be more eager : 

Of old I know them ; rather with their teeth 
The walls they ’ll tear down than forsake the siege. 

Reig. I think, by some odd giminers or device, 

Their arms are set like clocks, still to strike on ; 

Else ne’er could they hold out so as they do. 

By my consent, we ’ll even let them alone. 

Alen. Be it so. 

Enter the Bastard of Orleans. 

Bast. Where’s the prince dauphin 1 I have news for him. 

Char. Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us. 

Bast. Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall’d ; 

Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence 1 
Be not dismay’d, for succour is at hand ; 

A holy maid hither with me I bring, 

Which, by a vision sent to her from heaven, 

Ordained is to raise this tedious siege, 

And drive the English forth the bounds of Franoe. 

The spirit of deep prophecy she hath, 

Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome ; 

What’s past, and what’s to come, she can descry. 

Speak, shall I call her in 1 Believe my words, 

For they are certain and unfallible. 

Char. Go, call her in [Exit Bastard]: But, first, to try her skill, 
Reignier, stand thou as dauphin in my place : 

Question her proudly, let thy looks be stern :— 

By this means shall we sound what skill she hath. [R& 

Enter La Piccelle, Bastard of Orleans, and others. 

Reig. Fair maid, is ’t thou wilt do these wondrous feats ? 

Puc. Reignier, is’t thou that thinkest to beguile me 1 
Where is the dauphin ?—come, come from behind ; 

I know thee well, though never seen before. 

Be not amaz’d, there’s nothing hid from me : 

In private will I talk with thee apart;—■ 

Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile. 

Reig, She takes upon her bravely at first dash. 


SHAKSPERE.] 


THE SIEGE OF ORLEANS. 


493 


Puc. Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd’s daughter. 
My wit untrain’d in any kind of art. 

Heaven, and our Lady gracious, hath it pleas’d 
To shine on my contemptible estate : 

Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs, 

And to sun’s parching heat display’d my cheeks, 

God’s mother deigned to appear to me; 

And, in a vision full of majesty, 

Will’d me to leave my base vocation, 

And free my country from calamity : 

Her aid she promis’d and assur’d success ; 

In complete glory she reveal’d herself; 

And, whereas I was black and swart before, 

With those clear rays which she infus’d on me, 

That beauty am I bless’d with which you may see. 

Ask me what question thou canst possible, 

And I will answer unpremeditated : 

My courage try by combat, if thou dar’st, 

And thou sh&lt find that I exceed my sex. 

Resolve on this: Thou shalt be fortunate 
If thou receive me for thy warlike mate. 

***** 

Puc. Assign’d am I to be the English scourge. 

This night the siege assuredly I’ll raise : 

Expect saint Martin’s summer, halcyon days 
Since I have entered into these wars. 

Glory is like a circle in the water, 

Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, 

Till, by broad spreading, it disperse to nought. 

With Henry’s death the English circle ends ; 

Dispersed are the glories it included. 

Now am I like that proud insulting ship 
Which Csesar and his fortune bare at once. 


134.—BRIEF HISTORY OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 

Penny Cyclopaedia. 

Joan of Arc, surnamed the ‘ Maid of Orleans,’ from her heroic defence of that 
city, was born about the year 1410 or 1411, in the little hamlet of Domremy, near 
the Meuse, and about three leagues south of Yaucouleurs, on the borders of Cham¬ 
pagne. Her parents were humble and honest peasants. The district was remark¬ 
able for the devout simplicity of its inhabitants, as well as for those romantic 
superstitions which in a rude age are so often allied with religion. It appears from 
the copious depositions of witnesses from the neighbourhood of Domremy, examined 
at Joan’s trial, that she was unremitting in her prayers, and other religious exer¬ 
cises, and was strongly imbued, at a very early age, with the prevailing superstitions 
of her native place. 

During that period of anarchy in France, when the supreme power which had 
fallen from the hands of a monarch deprived of his reason was disputed for by the 
rival houses of Orleans and Burgundy, the contending paities canied on wai moie 









494 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [PENNY CYCLQ. 

by murder and massacre than by regular battles. When an army was wanted, both 
had recourse to the English, and these conquering strangers made the unfortunate 
French feel still deeper the horrors and ravages of war. At first, the popular feel¬ 
ing was undecided ; but when, on the death of Charles VI., the crown fell to a 
young prince who adopted the Armagnac side, whilst the house of Burgundy had 
sworn allegiance to a foreigner (Henry V.) as king of France, then, indeed, the wishes 
and interests of all the French were in favour of the Armagnacs, or the truly 
patriotic party. Remote as was the village of Domremy, it was still interested in 
the issue of the struggle. It was decidedly Armagnac, and was strengthened in 
this sentiment by the rivalry of a neighbouring village which adopted Burgundian 
colours. 

Political and party interests were thus forced upon the enthusiastic mind of Joan, 
and mingled with the pious legends which she had caught from the traditions of 
the Virgin. A prophecy was current, that a virgin should rid France of its enemies; 
and this prophecy seems to have been realised by its effect upon the mind of Joan. 
The girl, by her own account, was about thirteen when a supernatural vision first 
appeared to her. She describes it as a great light, accompanied by a voice telling 
her to be devout and good, and promising her the protection of heaven. Joan re¬ 
sponded by a vow of eternal chastity. In this there appears nothing beyond the 
effect of imagination. From that time the voice or voices continued to haunt Joan, 
and to echo the enthusiastic and restless wishes of her own heart. We shall not 
lay much stress on her declarations made before those who were appointed by the 
king to inquire into the credibility of her mission. Her own simple and early ac¬ 
count was, that “ voices ” were her visitors and advisers ; and that they prompted 
her to quit her native place, take up arms, drive the foe before her, and procure 
for the young king his coronation at Rheims. These voices, however, had not in¬ 
fluence enough to induce her to set out upon the hazardous mission, until a band 
of Burgundians, traversing and plundering the country, had compelled Joan, toge¬ 
ther with her parents, to take refuge in a neighbouring town : when they returned 
to their village, after the departure of the marauders, they found the church of 
Domremy in ashes. Such incidents were well calculated to arouse the indignation 
and excite the enthusiasm of Joan. Her voices returned, and incessantly directed 
her to set out for France ; but to commence by making application to De Baudri- 
court, commander at Vaucouleurs. Her parents, who were acquainted with Joan’s 
martial propensities, attempted to force her into a marriage ; but she contrived to 
avoid this by paying a visit to an uncle, in whose company she made her appear¬ 
ance before the governor of Vaucouleurs, in May, 1428. De Baudricourt at first 
refused to see her, and, upon granting an interview, treated her pretensions with 
contempt. She then returned to her uncle’s abode, where she continued to an¬ 
nounce her project, and to insist that the prophecy, that “ France, lost by a woman 
(Isabel of Bavaria), should be saved by a virgin from the frontiers of Lorraine,” 
alluded to her. She it was, she asserted, who could save France, and not ‘ either 
kings, or dukes, nor yet the king of Scotland’s daughter”—an expression which 
proves how well-informed she was as to the political events and rumours of 
the day. 

The fortunes of the dauphin Charles at this time had sunk to the lowest ebb • 
Orleans, almost his last bulwark, was besieged and closely pressed, and the loss of 
the “battle of Herrings” seemed to take away all hope of saving the city from 
the English. In this crisis, when all human support seemed unavailing, Baudri¬ 
court no longer despised the supernatural aid promised by the damsel of Domremy, 
and gave permission to John of Metz and Bertram of Poulengy, two gentlemen who 
had become convex to the truth of her divine mission, to conduct Joan of Arc to 


PENNY CYCLO.] BRIEF HISTORY OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 495 

the dauphin. They purchased a horse for her, and at her own desire furnished her 
with male habits, and other necessary equipments. Thus provided, and accom¬ 
panied by a respectable escort, Joan set out from Vaucouleurs on the 13th of 
February, 1429. Her progress, through regions attached to the Burgundian in¬ 
terest, was perilous, but she safely arrived at Fierbois, a place within five or six 
leagues of Chinon, -where the dauphin then held his court. At Fierbois was a 
celebrated church dedicated to St. Catherine, and here she spent her time in devo¬ 
tion, whilst a messenger was despatched to the dauphin to announce her approach. 
She was commanded to proceed, and reached Chinon on the eleventh day after her 
departure from Vaucouleurs. 

Charles, though he desired, still feared to accept the proffered aid, because he 
knew that the instant cry of his enemies would be, that he had put his faith in 
sorcery, and had leagued himself with the infernal powers. In consequence of this, 
Joan encountered every species of distrust. She was not even admitted to the 
dauphin’s presence without difficulty, and was required to recognize Charles amidst 
all his court; this Joan happily was able to do, as well as to gain the good opinion 
of the young monarch by the simplicity of her demeanour. Nevertheless, the prince 
proceeded to take every precaution before he openly trusted her. He first handed 
her over to a commission of ecclesiastics, to be examined ; then sent her for the 
same purpose to Poictiers, a great law-school, that the doctors of both faculties 
might solemnly decide whether Joan’s mission was from heaven or from the devil; 
for none believed it to be merely human. The greatest guarantee against sorcery 
was considered to be the chastity of the young girl, it being an axiom, that the 
devil would not or could not take part with a virgin; and no pains were spared to 
ascertain her true character in this respect. In short, the utmost incredulity could 
not have laboured harder to find out imposture, than did the credulity of that day 
to establish its grounds of belief. Joan was frequently asked to do miracles, but 
her only reply was, ‘ Bring me to Orleans, and you shall see. The siege shall be 
raised, and the dauphin crowned king at Rheims.” 

They at length granted her request, and she received the rank of a military com¬ 
mander. A suit of armour was made for her, and she sent to Fierbois for a sword, 
which she said would be found buried in a certain spot within the church. It was 
found there, and conveyed to her. The circumstance became afterwards one of 
alleged proofs of her sorcery or imposture. Her having passed some time at Fier¬ 
bois amongst the ecclesiastics of the place must have led, in some way or other, to 
her knowledge of the deposit. Strong in the conviction of her mission, it was 
Joan’s desire to enter Orleans from the north, and through all the fortifications of 
the English. Dunois, however, and the other leaders, at length overruled her, and 
induced her to abandon the little company of pious companions which she had 
jaised, and to enter the beleaguered city by water, as the least perilous path. She 
succeeded in carrying with her a convoy of provisions to the besieged. The entry 
of Joan of Arc into Orleans, at the end of April, was itself a triumph. The hearts 
of the besieged were raised from despair to a fanatical confidence of success ; and 
the English, who in every encounter had defeated the French, felt their courage 
paralyzed by the coming of this simple girl. Joan announced her arrival to the 
foe by a herald, bearing a summons to the English generals to be gone from the 
land, or she, the Pucelle, would slay them. The indignation of the English was 
increased by their terror ; they detained the herald, and threatened to buin him, 
as a specimen of the treatment which they reserved tor his mistress. But in the 
mean time the English, either from being under the influence of terror, or through 
some unaccountable want of precaution, allowed the armed force raised and left 
behind by Joan, to reach Orleans unmolested, traversing their entrenchments. Such 







496 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [PENNY CYCLO 

being the state of feeling on both sides, Joan’s ardour impelled her to take advant¬ 
age of it. Under her banner, and cheered by her presence, the besieged marched 
to the attack of the English forts one after another. The first carried was that of 
St. Loup, to the east of Orleans. It was valiantly defended by the English, who, 
when attacked, fought desperately ; but the soldiers of the Pucelle were invincible. 
On the following day, the 6th of May, Joan, after another summons to the English, 
signed “Jhesus Maria and Jehanne La Pucelle,” renewed the attack upon the other 
forts. The French being compelled to make a momentary retreat, the English took 
courage, and pursued their enemies : whereupon Joan, throwing herself into a boat, 
crossed the river, and her appearance was sufficient to frighten the English from 
the open field. Behind their ramparts they were still, however, formidable ; and 
the attack led by Joan against the works to the south of the city is the most me¬ 
morable achievement of the siege. After cheering on her people for some time, she 
had seized a scaling-ladder, when an English arrow struck her between the breast 
and shoulder, and threw her into the fosse. When her followers took her aside, 
she showed at first some feminine weakness, and wept ; but seeing that her stan¬ 
dard was in danger, she forgot her wound, and ran back to seize it. The French 
at the same time pressed hard upon the enemy, whose strong hold was carried by 
assault. The English commander, Gladesdall, or Glacidas, as Joan called him, 
perished with his bravest soldiers in the Loire. The English now determined to 
raise the siege, and Sunday being the day of their departure, Joan forbade her 
soldiers to molest their retreat. Thus in one week from her arrival at Orleans was 
the beleaguered city relieved of its dreaded foe, and the Pucelle, henceforth called 
the Maid of Orleans, had redeemed the most incredible and important of her 
promises. 

No sooner was Orleans freed from the enemy, than Joan returned to the court, 
to entreat Charles to place forces at her disposal, that she might reduce the towns 
between the Loire and Rheims, where she proposed to have him speedily crowned. 
Her projects were opposed by the minister and warriors of the court, who con¬ 
sidered it more politic to drive the English from Normandy than to harass the 
Burgundians, or make sacrifices for the idle ceremony of a coronation ; but her 
earnest solicitations prevailed, and early in June she attacked the English at Jar- 
geau. They made a desperate resistance, and drove the French before them till 
the appearance of Joan chilled the stout hearts of the English soldiers. One of the 
Poles was killed, aud another, with Suffolk the commander of the town, was taken 
prisoner. This success was followed by a victory at Patay, in which the English 
were beaten by a charge of Joan, and the gallant Talbot himself taken prisoner. 
No force seemed able to withstand the Maid of Orleans. The strong town of Troyes, 
which might have repulsed the weak and starving army of the French, was terrified 
into surrender by the sight of her banner ; and Rheims itself followed the example. 
In the middle of July, only three months after Joan had come to the relief of 
the sinking party of Charles, this prince was crowned in the cathedral consecrated 
to this ceremony, in the midst of the dominions of his enemies. Well might an 
age even more advanced than the fifteenth century believe, that superhuman inter¬ 
ference manifested itself in the deeds of Joan. 

Some historians relate that, immediately after the coronation, the Maid of 
Orleans expressed to the king her wish to retire to her family at Domremy ; but 
there is little proof of such a resolution on her part. In September of the same 
year, we find her holding a command in the royal army, which had taken posses¬ 
sion of St. Denis, where she hung up her arms in the cathedral. Soon after, the 
French generals compelled her to join in an attack upon Paris, in which thoy were 
repulsed with great loss, and Joan herself was pierced through the thigh with an 



TENNY CYCLO.] BRIEF HISTORY OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 497 

arrow. It was the first time that a force in which she served had suffered defeat. 
Charles immediately retired once more to the Loire, and there are few records of 
Joan’s exploits during the winter. About this time a royal edict was issued, en¬ 
nobling her family, and the district of Domremy was declared free from all tax or 
tribute. In the ensuing spring, the English and Burgundians formed the siege of 
Compidgne ; and Joan threw herself into the town to preserve it, as she had before 
saved Orleans, from their assaults. She had not been many hours in it when she 
headed a sally against the Burgundian quarters, in which she was taken by some 
officers, who gave her up to the Burgundian commander, John of Luxemburg. Her 
capture appears, from the records of the Parisian parliament, to have taken place 
on the 23rd of May, 1430. 


135.—THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 

CROWNING THE KING. 

The morn was fair 
When Rheims/re-echoed to the busy hum 
Of multitudes, for high solemnity 
Assembled. To the holy fabric moves 
The long procession, through the streets bestrewn 
With flowers and laurel boughs. The courtier throng 
Were there, and they in Orleans, who endured 
The siege right bravely ; Gancour, and La Hire. 

The gallant Xaintrailles, Boussac, and Chabannes, 

La Fayette, name that freedom still shall love 
Alengon, and the bravest of the brave, 

The Bastard Orleans, now in hope elate, 

Soon to release from hard captivity 
A dear beloved brother ; gallant men, 

And worthy of eternal memory, 

For they, in the most perilous times of France, 
Despair’d not of their country. By the king 
The delegated damsel pass’d along, 

Clad in her batter’d arms. She bore on high 
Her hallow’d banner to the sacred pile, 

And fix’d it on the altar, whilst her hand 
Pour’d on the monarch’s head the mystic oil, 

Wafted of yore by milk-white dove from heaven, 

(So legends say), to Clovis when he stood 
At Rheims for baptism ; dubious some that day, 
When Tolbiac plain reek’d with his warriors’ blood, 
And fierce upon their flight the Almanni prest, 

And rear’d the shout of triumph ; in that hour 
Clovis invoked aloud the Christian God 
And conquer’d : waked to wonder thus, the chief 
Became love’s convert, and Clotilda led 
Her husband to the font. 

The mission’d maid 

Then placed on Charles’s brow the crown of France, 
And back retiring, gazed upon the king 


Southey, 


K K 






498 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 

One moment, quickly scanning all the past, 

Till in a tumult of wild wonderment 
She wept aloud. The assembled multitude 
In awful stillness witness’d : then at once, 

As with a tempest-rushing noise of winds, 

Lifted their mingled clamours. Now the maid 
Stood as prepared to speak, and waved her hand, 

And instant silence followed : 

“ King of France ! ” 

She cried, “ at Chinon, when my gifted eye 
Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the spirit 
Prompted, I spake; armed with the sword of God 
To drive from Orleans far the English wolves, 

And crown thee in the rescued walls of Rheims. 

All is accomplish’d. I have here this day 
Fulfill’d my mission, and anointed thee 
Chief servant of the people. Of this charge, 

Or well perform’d or wickedly, high heaven 
Shall take account. If that thine heart be good, 

I know no limit to the happiness 

Thou may’st create. I do beseech thee, king! ” 

The maid exclaim’d, and fell upon the ground 
And clasp’d his knees, “ I do beseech thee, king! 

By all the millions that depend on thee, 

For weal or woe * * * consider what thou art, 

And know thy duty ! If thou dost oppress 

Thy people, if to aggrandize thyself 

Thou tear’st them from their homes, and sendest them 

To slaughter, prodigal of misery! 

If when the widow and the orphan groan 
In want and wretchedness, thou turnest thee 
To hear the music of the flatterer’s tongue ; 

If when thou hear’st of thousands massacred, 

Thou say’st, ‘ I am a king ! and fit it is 

That these should perish for me ;’ . . .if thy realm 

Should through the counsels of thy government, 

Be fill’d with woe, and in thy streets be heard 
The voice of mourning and the feeble cry 
Of asking hunger, if at such a time 
Thou dost behold thy plenty-cover’d board, 

And shroud thee in thy robes of royalty, 

And say that all is well, * * * Oh, gracious God! 

Be merciful to such a monstrous man. 

When the spirits of the murder’d innocent 
Cry at thy throne for justice ! 

King of France ! 

Protect the lowly, feed the hungry ones, 

And be the orphan’s father ! thus shalt thou 
Become the representative of heaven, 

And gratitude and love establish thus 

Thy reign. Believe me, king ! that hireling guard-S, 

Though flesh’d in slaughter, will be weak to save 


rSOUTHEY 


80UTHEY.] 


499 


THE MAID OF ORLEANS-CROWNING THE KING. 

A tyrant on tlie blood-cemented throne 
That totters underneath him.” 

Thus the Maid 

Redeem’d her country. Ever may the All-Just 
Give to the arms of Freedom such success. 


136.—THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 

Translated from ‘ Barante. 

In the destruction of La Pucelle, the English had a zealous and cruel coadjutor 
in the person of Pierre Cauchon, bishop of Beauvais. Urged on by the duke of 
Bedford and the earl of Warwick, he conducted the whole process. The doctors 
of the University of Paris were no less ardent; they were, to all appearance, the 
chief movers in the whole proceeding. 

After passing six months in the prisons of Beaurevoir, Arras, and Crotoy, Joan 
was conveyed to Rouen, where the young king Henry, and all the members of the 
English government then were. She was confined in the great tower of the castle, 
an iron cage was formed to hold her, and chains -were placed on her feet. The 
English archers who were her guards heaped insults upon her, and sometimes even 
attempted to offer her violence. Nor was it the common men only w 7 ho treated her 
with harshness and cruelty. The Lord of Luxembourg, whose prisoner she had 
been, passing through Rouen, visited her in prison, accompanied by the earls of 
Warwick and Strafford. “Joan,” said he in jest, “I am come to ransom thee ; 
but thou must promise never to take up arms against us.” “ Ah ! my God ! you 
are making sport of me,” said she, “ you have neither the will nor the power to 
ransom me. I know that the English will kill me, hoping to get possession of the 
kingdom of France after my death ; but, were there a hundred thousand more 
Goddems than there are now, they would never get this kingdom.” Enraged at these 
words, the earl of Strafford drew his sword to strike her, and was only prevented 
by the interference of the earl of Warwick. 

At this time there was no Archbishop at Rouen. In order that the bishop of 
Beauvais might be the judge of La Pucelle, who had been taken in his diocese, it 
was necessary that territory and jurisdiction should be granted him by the Chapter 
of Rouen. King Henry, at the request of this bishop, and of the University of 
Paris, then commanded by letters patent, that the woman called La Pucelle should 
be given up to the said bishop, to be examined and proceeded against by him, 
under an engagement to release the aforesaid if she were not charged and con¬ 
victed of that which was imputed to her. The English, however, would never 
consent to place her in the archbishop’s prison, which was where she ought to have 
been confined. Joan herself, as well as some doctors, observed this violation of 
justice, but the bishop of Beauvais cared little for it. 

There were few ecclesiastics so zealous in the cause of the English, or so furious 
against Joan, as Pierre Cauchon. This bishop however, vehement though he was, 
wished to take the precaution of gathering around him as many learned and able 
men as he could collect. His violence and the threats of the English brought for¬ 
ward many weak men, who acted from fear and servility ; and others, but very 
few, who, like himself, were the cruel and active allies of the English council. 

Jean Lemaitre, vicar of the inquisitor-general of the kingdom, was amongst trie 
former. He made every effort to avoid taking part in the iniquities which he saw 
preparing against the unfortunate Joan. He alleged that, as the bishop of Beau¬ 
vais was acting as though on his own territory, the Friar of the diocese ot Rouen 






500 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [BAR ANTE. 

ought not to take cognizance of the proceedings. A special commission from the 
Inquisitor-general was required to gain him over. 

It was not easy to give to such an affair the appearance of justice, and to satisfy 
the English whilst at the same time following the procedure of law and custom ; 
for it was commonly reported that Joan was a holy person ; who having fought 
bravely against the English and the Burgundians, had been taken in war, and 
against whom no other accusation could be made. This process was, therefore, a 
succession of falsehoods, of snares laid to criminate her, of continual violations of 
the law, with the hypocritical pretence of desiring to follow its rules. 

The first proceeding was the admission into her prison of a priest named Nicolas 
l'Oiseleur, who pretended to be a native of Lorraine, and a secret partisan of the 
French king. He made every effort to obtain her confidence. In the meantime 
the bishop of Beauvais and the earl of Warwick, concealed near, listened to what 
she said. The notaries whom they had brought to report her words, were ashamed 
to do so, they said they would write down what she said before the tribunal, but 
that this was an act of dishonesty. Besides what could Joan say that she was not 
ready to repeat before all the world. This priest Nicolas afterwards became her 
confessor, and during the trial, continually prompted her with replies which might 
injure her. The bishop and the friar of the Inquisitor were the only judges who 
were entitled to pronounce sentence. The doctors who had been assembled, to the 
number of nearly a hundred, served them merely as counsel and assessors. A 
canon of Beauvais, named Estivet, fulfilled the office of proctor, which properly be¬ 
longs to the king’s attorney. Next to the bishop, this man was the most violent 
against the accused. He abused her unceasingly, and was highly enraged with 
those who desired that the rules of justice should be adhered to. 

There was also a commissioned-examining-councillor to put the preliminary 
questions. 

Inquiries had been instituted at Domremy, Joan’s native place. As the result 
was favourable to her, it was suppressed, and no communication on the subject was 
made to the doctors. 

At the commencement of the proceedings, Joan underwent six consecutive exa¬ 
minations before this numerous council. In them she appeared even more coura¬ 
geous, and more to be marvelled at, than when fighting the enemies of her country. 
This poor girl, whose whole learning consisted in her Pater and her Ave, was never 
disconcerted for a single instant. The brutal treatment she received caused her 
neither fear nor anger. She was not allowed counsel; but her sincerity and good 
sense defeated all the strategems employed to render her replies such as might ex¬ 
pose her to a suspicion of heresy or magic. Her answers were often so beautiful, 
as to petrify the doctors with astonishment. On being asked if she knew herself 
to be in the grace of God, “ It is no light matter,” said she, “ to answer such a 
question.” “Yes,” interrupted Jean Fabri, one of the assessors, “it is a great 
question, and the accused is not bound to reply to it.” “ You had better be silent!” 
cried the bishop, in a fury. “ If I have not God’s grace,” she replied, “may He 
grant it me ; and if I have, may He continue it to me.” She said further : “ If it 
was not for the grace of God, I should not know how to act by myself.” At another 
time, when questioned concerning her standard : “ I carried it instead of a lance,” said 
she, “ to avoid killing any one. I have never killed any one.” And then, when asked 
what virtue she attributed to this banner : “ I said, go boldly among the English, 
and I went myself.” The coronation at Rheims was mentioned, during which she 
had held her standard near the altar. “ It was with me in hardship and danger, 
and it was but fair,” said she, “ that it should be with me in honour.” 

Concerning her visions, she repeated all that she had formerly said at Poitiers 


BARANTE.] 


THE TRIAL AND DEATH OE THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 


501 


Her faith in what she called her voices continued the same. She heard them con¬ 
stantly in her prison ; she often saw the two saints ; she received consolation and 
encouragement from them ; it was by their advice that she replied boldly ; it was 
they who instigated her to repeat before this tribunal, composed entirely of the 
friends of England, that the English would be driven from France. 

A point often returned to was that of the signs by which she had induced the 
king to accept her aid. She often refused to reply to this ; at other times the 
voices forbade her to speak of it. Then, notwithstanding, she related various 
strange things on the subject—of an angel who delivered to the king a crown from 
Heaven, and of the manner of this vision. Sometimes the king alone had seen it; 
at others there had been many more witnesses ; now the angel was herself; then 
she appeared to confound this crown with the one which had been really made for 
the coronation at Rheims. Indeed her ideas about the first interviews that she 
had had with the king appeared confused, without meaning or coherence. Allegories, 
or great mysteries have been discerned in them by several persons. In the oaths 
to reply truthfully which were imposed upon her, she always made a reservation 
concerning what she had said to the king, and only swore to answer to the points 
of the action. In other respects nothing could be more pious, more simple, or 
more truthful than all she said. 

This only increased the fury of the English, and of the bishop. The councillors 
who took the side of the accused were insulted, and often threatened with being 
thrown into the river. The notaries were forced to omit all favourable replies, and 
it was only with great difficulty that they could escape the insertion of falsehoods. 
After the first examinations, the bishop judged it advisable to continue the proce¬ 
dure only before a very limited number of assessors : he said that everything should 
be communicated to them, and that their advice could be taken, without requiring 
their presence. 

The process had already disposed of all the charges of sorcery. Not the slightest 
suspicion of this was warranted by the testimony given, or by any reply of tne ac¬ 
cused. When asked about a fairy-haunted tree, famous in her village, she said 
that her godmother testified to having seen the fairies, but, for her own pait, she 
had never had any vision on that spot. 

Thus the accusation now rested on two points: the crime of wearing male apparei, 
and the refusal to submit to the Church. This determination not to wear the dress 
proper to her sex was a singular thing. Doubtless the costume she maintained was 
better calculated than any other to defend her modesty from the outrages of her 
keepers; but she never stated this as her motive. The commands of her voices 
was what she always alleged ; she appeared to have no free will on this point, but 
to be under the constraint of some duty imposed by the Divine will. As to sub¬ 
mission to the Church, this was a snare into which she had been entrapped by the 
malice of her judge. She had been imposed upon by a learned and subtle distinc¬ 
tion between the Church triumphant in Heaven, and the Church militant on earth. 
Her treacherous confessor made her fancy that to submit herself to the Church 
would be to acknowledge the tribunal, which was composed entiicly of her. enemies 
in spite of her constant request that some of her partisans might be admitted 

After these first examinations the proctor drew up the articles on which t e 
accusation was to rest; for all hitherto was merely preparatory. T le examinations 
then recommenced before a larger number of assessors : there were now thirty or 
forty but never again a hundred. Nearly all endeavoured to escape from this cruel 
office, and the threats of the English made several withdraw themselves. 

M. de la Fontaine, the examining commissary, and two other assessors move 
with pity and a sense of justice, could not suffer Joan to be so deceived on the sub- 






502 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [BARANTE. 

ject of submission to the Church. They visited her, and endeavoured to explain 
to her that by the Church militant was understood the Pope and the Holy Coun¬ 
cils, and that thus she was quite safe in submitting to it. One ot them had even 
the courage to tell her openly during the examinations, that she had better submit 
herself to the General Council of Bale, which was then assembled. “ What is a 
General Council ? ” said she. “ It is a congregation of the Universal Church,” 
continued brother Isambard, “ and it is formed of as many doctors on your side, 
as on the side of the English.” “ Oh ! in that case I submit myself to it! ” she 
cried. “ Be quiet, for the devil’s sake,” interrupted the Bishop, and forbade the 
notary to write this answer : “ Alas ! you write down all that tells against me, and 

you will not write what is in my favour,” said the poor girl. 

Brother Isambard was not suffered to escape with nothing more than the Bishop’s 
anger. The Earl of Warwick overwhelmed him with abuse and threats. “ What 
induced thee to prompt that woman this morning ? ” he said to him ; “ by God’s 
death, villain, if I again find you making any attempt to save her, I will have you 
thrown into the Seine.” The examining commissary and the other assessor were 
so alarmed that they left the town ; admittance into the prison was henceforth 
forbidden to ail but the bishop. 

When the examinations were concluded, the substance of the prisoner’s replies 
was reduced into twelve latin articles, and as one of the assessors remarked that 
these articles conveyed the meaning imperfectly, the bishop, without further con¬ 
sulting any one, despatched this lying report, as a document on which he desired 
advice, not naming the accused, to the University of Paris, to the Chapter of Bouen, 
to the Bishops of Lisieux, Avranches and Coutances, and to more than fifty doctors, 
most of them assessors in the trial. This was a form by which the judges requested 
to be enlightened on points of doctrine, and things concerning the Catholic faith. 

All the opinions given were adverse to the accused. Not to mention the ill-will 
of those who were consulted, it would have been hardly possible to reply otherwise 
to the false statements laid before them. All considered that the prisoner about 
whom they were consulted had from foolishness or vanity put faith in apparitions 
and revelations which were doubtless the work of the Evil Spirit: that she blas¬ 
phemed God in imputing to Him the command to wear male attire : and that her 
refusal to submit herself to the Church proved her to be a heretic. 

In the meantime the judges, without waiting for these opinions, proceeded to 
make monitions to Joan ; for an ecclesiastical tribunal has no power to demand 
more than the submission of the culprit. Just then she fell ill, much to the alarm 
of the English. “ The king would rather anything in the world,” said the Earl of 
Warwick, “than that she should die a natural death ; having paid so dearly for 
her, he expects her to be burnt. Let her be cured as soon as possible.” 

As soon as she recovered, the monitions were recommenced, no one now explained 
to the simple-minded and ignorant girl the quibbles about submission to the 
Church ; she appeared therefore to rely solely upon what she herself learnt from 
God by her voices ; she always spoke with respect, however, of the Pope’s autho¬ 
rity. Her determination not to resume female attire was in no way weakened. 

At last the sentence was delivered. It was, like the ecclesiastical judgments, a 
declaration made to the prisoner, that for such and such motives, she was expelled 
from the Church, as a corrupt member, and delivered up to secular justice. It 
was added, as a matter of form, that the laymen were recommended to moderate 
the punishment, as far as concerned death or mutilation. 

But before her execution it was desirable to obtain from her a sort of public 
avowal of the justice of her condemnation. To this end, she was advised, through 
Ler false confessor, to submit herself, under promise of merciful treatment, and of 


BVRANTE.] THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 503 

being delivered out of the bands of tbe English, and placed in the power of the 
Church. On the 24th of May, 1431, she was taken to the St. Ouen burymg-ground 
where two large scaffolds were erected ; upon one of these were the Cardinal of 
Winchester, the Bishop of Beauvais, the Bishops of Noyon and Boulogne, and 

several assessors. , . . 

Joan was conducted on to the other scaffold on which were the doctor who was 

to preach, the notaries employed in the trial, the officei^ in w lose cus oc y s e a 
been during the examinations, M. l’Oiseleur, and another assessor, who had a so 
been her confessor. Close by was the executioner with his cart ready to receive 
La Pucelle, and to convey her to the pile formed in the Grand Place. An 
crowd of French and English filled the burymg-ground. The preacher spoke> al 
great length. “ Oh ! noble house of France,” he said amongst other things who, 
until now, hast always avoided supernatural things, and hast ever P~^ted the 
faith, hast thou been so deceived as to take part with a heretic and schismat ? 

It is sreatlv to be deplored ! Ah ! France ! thou hast been misled , thou, w o 

hast always been the most Christian realm ; and Charles, thou 

her king and governor, thou, heretic as thou art, hast approved the words and 

acts of an infamous and a shameful woman. , , . . • _ p. 00( j 

Here Joan interrupted him : “ Speak of me, but not of the km he is a good 
Christian, and I dare to say and to swear, on pain of death, that he> isthe best 
Christians, and a good friend to the faith and the Church. He is not such you 
9ay “ Make her be silent! ” cried the Bishop of Beauvais. adjuration 

At the conclusion of his sermon, the preacher read to Joan a 
and told her to sign it. “ What is an adjuration 

that if she refused to sign the articles presented to her she wouhi be a 

that she must submit h«-M- “was nTsuL"the 

adjuration if the universal Church w • ,, avowal that her 

Church or to the Pope that was required from lJi t .■ d ises 

i“*» s ~»»• e " ! ? >"■« 

sz - “ 11 "* 

<»—...», *£,“«?. ;s“ 

appeared to them like mercy towau he said, “it is the duty of a bishop 

ssrasrrr.. "r-w,.. «.w 

said she, “and since the cnurchmen say A t ^ by fire> » said the 

I will no longer hold to them. S o ’ A Eno .lish king had substituted 

preacher to her. In this interval a [ secretary of ^Englis^ ^ ^ 

for the articles which had been read t > a long adjuration, in which she 

such difficulty to approve, anothei pap ‘ j j, pardon of her crimes. She 

avowed that all she had said was false, and prayed top ^ A great dia . 

; the French rejoicing at her escape, the 

^The^ BSshop^of 1 Beauvais^and^he 8 of° lm^ n days r in e pr^oi^ 

which they had brought, condemning oan P Th p rom i se s which had 

on the bread of misery, and the " T f .^" S A hoped to be taken out of 
just been made to her were immediately broken, sne I 





504 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [BARANTE. 

the hands of the English, and delivered over to the clergy; in spite of her remon¬ 
strances, she was carried back to the Tower. 

The English were still very angry, they drew their swords, threatening the 
bishop and the assessors, and crying that they had not earned the king’s money. 
Even the Earl of Warwick complained to the bishop. “ The business has succeeded 
badly, since Joan has escaped,” said he. “ Never fear,” said one of the assessor^ 
“ we will soon have her again.” 

To this end operations were commenced without delay. She had resumed 
female clothing. Her male apparel was left in the same room. Her English 
gaolers and even an English lord, conducted themselves towards her with shameful 
brutality. She was more closely fettered than before, and treated with greater 
harshness. Nothing was omitted to reduce her to despair. At last, finding that 
she could not be made to violate her promise to retain the garments of her sex, 
her keepers removed them during her sleep, and only left her the male suit. “ You 
know, gentlemen, that this is forbidden me,” she said on awaking, “ I do not wish 
to wear this dress. “ However, she was obliged to rise and put it on. This was a 
great delight to the English. “She is taken !” cried the earl of Warwick. Informa¬ 
tion was immediately sent to the bishop. The assessors who arrived a short time 
before him, were menaced and driven back by the English, who filled the court of 
the castle. 

Without listening to Joan’s excuses, without suffering any mention in the verbal 
process of the outrages to which she had been submitted, and the manner in which 
she had been forced to change her clothing, without paying the least attention to 
her just complaints, the bishop began saying that he found she still adhered to her 
illusions. “ Have you again heard your voices ? ” he added. “ It is true I have,” 
she replied. “What did they say V ’ pursued the bishop. “God has revealed to 
me,” continued she, “ that it was a great mistake to sign your adjuration in order 
to save my life. The two saints told me on the scaffold to reply boldly to that 
false preacher, who accused me of what I had never done ; they reproached me for 
my fault.” After this she affirmed more positively than ever, that she believed 
her voices came from God ; that she had never understood what the adjuration 
was : that she had signed from fear of being burnt : that she would rather die than 
remain in chains : that the only thing she could do was to wear female clothing. 

“ Eor the rest, imprison me leniently. I will behave well, and do all the church 
desires.” 

This was enough, she was doomed. “ Farewell! ” cried the bishop to the earl 
if Warwick, and the rest of the English who were awaiting him outside the prison. 

The judges now resolved to deliver her over to secular justice, that is to say, to 
give her up to death. When this hard and cruel fate was announced to the poor 
girl, she began to weep and tear her hair. Her voices had often warned her that 
she would perish ; but she had often fancied also that they promised her deliver¬ 
ance ; now she could think of nothing but this dreadful death. “ Alas ! ” said 
she, “ my body which is pure and undefiled to be reduced to ashes ! I would 
seven times rather be beheaded. If, as I requested, I had been placed in the 
custody of the church, I should not have met with such a terrible fate. Ah ! I 
appeal to God, the great Judge, against the cruelty and injustice which I suffer.” 

When she saw Pierre Cauchon, she said, “ Bishop, you are my murderer.” To 
one of the assessors she said, “ Ah ! M. Pierre, where shall I be to-day ? ” “ Have 
you not hope in God?” he asked in reply, “yes,” answered she, “ I trust, with 
God’s help, to go to Paradise.” By a singular contradiction to the sentence, she 
was allowed to take the sacrament. On the 30th of May, a week after her adjura 
tion, she entered the executioner’s cart. Her confessor, not he who had betrayed 


BARAN'IE. j THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 505 

her, but brother Martin l’Advenu, and brother Isambard, both of whom had more 
than once during the trial demanded that justice should be done her, were by her 
side. Eight hundred Englishmen, armed with axes, lances, and swords, surrounded 
the cart. 

On the road, she prayed so fervently, and lamented her fate with such meek¬ 
ness, that no Frenchman could restrain his tears. Some of the assessors were so 
overcome as to be unable to follow her to the scaffold. Suddenly a priest broke 
through the crowd, and reaching the cart, mounted into it. It was Nicolas l’Oise- 
leur, the false confessor, who, full of contrition, came to implore Joan’s pardon for 
his perfidy. The English, overhearing him, were furious at his repentance, and the 
earl of Warwick had great difficulty in saving his life. 

On arriving at the place of execution, Joan said, “ Ah ! Rouen ! Rouen! is it 
here that I am to die ? ” 

The cardinal of Winchester, and several French prelates were placed on one 
scaffold, the ecclesiastical and the secular judges on the other. Joan was conducted 
before them. A sermon was then delivered, upbraiding her with her relapse ; she 
listened to it with patience and great calmness. “ Joan, go in peace ; the church can 
no longer protect thee, and delivers thee into secular hands.” Thus the preacher 
concluded. 

She then kneeled down, and implored the mercy of God, of the Holy Virgin, and 
of the Saints, especially St. Michel, St. Catherine, and St. Marguerite ; she displayed 
so much fervour, that all around her wept, even the cardinal of Winchester, and 
several other Englishmen. 

The bishop of Beauvais read the sentence, declaring her a relapsed heretic, and 
abandoning her to the secular power. After having been thus repulsed by the 
church, she asked for a cross. An Englishman formed one of two staffs, and gave 
it her. She took it devoutly, and kissed it ; but she desired to have the cross of 
the parish ; it was sent for, and she pressed it closely to her heart, whilst con¬ 
tinuing to pray. 

The English soldiers, and even some captains, began to be impatient at this 
delay. “ Come, priest, are you going to make us dine here ?” said some. “ Give 
her to us,”' said others, and it shall soon be over.” “Do your duty,” they said 
to the executioner. 

Without waiting for any further order, or for the sentence of the secular judge, 
the executioner seized her. She embraced the cross, and walked towards the pile. 
The English soldiers dragged her forward with fury. Jean de Muilli, bishop of 
Noyon, and.some other ecclesiastics, unable to endure this sight, descended from 
their scaffold and retired. 

The pile was formed on a heap of rubbish. As soon as Joan had ascended it, a 
mitre was placed on her head, on which were inscribed the words heretique. relapse , 
apostate , idoldtre. Brother Martin l’Advenu, her confessor, had ascended the pile 
with her; he was still on it, when the executioner kindled the fire. ‘‘Jesus,” 
cried Joan, and made the good priest descend from the pile. “ Remain below.” 
said she, “ raise the cross before me, that I may see it as I die, and continue to 
repeat to me words of religious consolation to the last.” 

The bishop of Beauvais approaching her, she repeated to him : “ T ou are my 
destroyer.” She again affirmed that the voices came from God ; that she did not 
think she had been deluded, and that all she had done had been by command of 
God. “ Ah ! Rouen ! she added, “ I fear that thou wilt suffer for my death. 
Thus protesting her innocence, and commending her soul to God, her prayers were 
still heard when the flames surrounded her, the last word that could be distin¬ 
guished being, “ Jesm /” 







506 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[hall’s CHRONICLE. 


137.—THE INSURRECTION OF CADE. 

Hall’s Chronicle. 

A certain young man of a goodly stature and pregnant wit was enticed to take 
upon him the name of John Mortimer, although his name was John Cade, and not 
for a small policy, thinking that by that surname the line and lineage of the assistant 
house of the earl of March, which were no small number, should be to him both 
adherent and favourable. This captain, not only suborned by teachers, but also 
enforced by privy schoolmasters, assembled together a great company of tall per¬ 
sonages ; assuring them that their attempt was both honourable to God and the 
king, and also profitable to the commonwealth, promising them, that if either by 
force or policy they might once take the king, the queen, and other their counsellors, 
into their hands and governance, that they would honourably entreat the king, and so 
sharply handle his counsellors, that neither fifteens should hereafter be demanded, 
nor once any impositions or tax should be spoken of. These persuasions, with 
many other fair promises of liberty (which the common people more affect and 
desire, rather than reasonable obedience and due conformity), so animated the 
Kentish people, that they, with their captain above named, in good order of battle 
(not in great number) came to the plain of Blackheath, between Eldham and Green¬ 
wich. And to the intent that the cause of this glorious captain’s coming thither 
might be shadowed from the king and his counsel, he sent to him an humble sup¬ 
plication, with loving words but with malicious intent, affirming his coming not to be 
against him, but against divers of his counsel, lovers of themselves and oppressors 
of the poor commonalty, flatterers to the king and enemies to his honour, suckers 
of his purse and robbers of his subjects, partial to their friends and extreme to be 
their enemies, for rewards corrupted and for indifferency nothing doing. This proud 
bill was both of the king and his counsel disdainfully taken, and therepon great 
consultation had, and after long debating it was concluded that such proud rebels 
should rather be suppressed and tamed with violence and force than with fair words 
or amicable answer : whereupon the king assembled a great army and marched 
toward them, which had lyen on Blackheath by the space of vii days. The subtil 
captain, named Jack Cade, intending to bring the king farther within the compass 
of his net, brake up his camp, and retired backward to the town of Sevenoaks, in 
Kent, and there, expecting his prey, encamped himself and made his abode. The 
queen, which bare the rule, being of his retreat well advertised, sent Sir Humphrey 
Stafford, knight, and William his brother, with many other gentlemen, to follow the 
chase of the Kentish men, thinking that they had fled ; but verily they were de¬ 
ceived ; for at the first skirmish both the Staffords were slain, and all their company 
shamefully discomfited. The king’s army, being at this time come to Blackheath 
hearing of this discomfiture, began to grudge and murmur amongst themselves • 
some wishing the Duke of York at home to aid the captain his cousin ; some de¬ 
siring the overthrow of the king and his counsel; other openly crying out on the 
queen and her complices. This rumour, openly spoken and commonly published 
caused the king, and certain of his counsel not led by favour nor corrupted by re¬ 
wards (to the intent to appease the furious rage of the inconstant multitude), to 
commit the Lord Say, Treasurer of England, to the Tower of London ; and if other 
against whom like displeasure was borne, had been present, they had likewise been 
served : but it was necessary that one should suffer rather than all the nobility 
then should perish. When the Kentish captain, or the covetous Cade, had thus 
obtained victory and slain the two valiant Staffords, he apparelled himself in their 
rich armour, and so with pomp and glory returned again toward London ; in which 



hall’s chronicle.] 


THE INSURRECTION OP CADE. 


507 


retreat, divers idle and vagabond persons resorted to him from Sussex and Surrev 
and from other parts, to a great number. Thus this glorious captain, compassed 
about and environed with a multitude of evil, rude, and rustic persons, came again 
to the plain of Blackheath, and there strongly encamped himself: to whom were 
sent by the king the Archbishop of Canterbury and Humphrey Duke of Bucking¬ 
ham, to commune with him of his griefs and requests. These lords found him sober 
m communication, wise in disputing, arrogant in heart, and stiff in his opinion and 
by no ways possible to be persuaded to dissolve his army, except the king in person 
would come to him and assent to all things which he would require. These lords 
perceiving the wilful pertinacy and manifest contumacy of this rebellious Javelin* 
departed to the king, declaring to him his temerarious and rash words and pre¬ 
sumptuous requests. The king, somewhat hearing and more marking the sayings 
of this outrageous losel, aud having daily report of the concourse and access of 
people which continually resorted to him, doubting as much his familiar servants 
as his unknown subjects (which spared not to speak that the captain’s cause was 
profitable for the commonwealth), departed in all haste to the castle of Killing- 
worth, in Warwickshire, leaving only behind him the Lord Scales, to keep the Tower 
of London. The captain, being advertised of the king’s absence, came first into 
Southwark, and there lodged at the White Hart, prohibiting to all men murder, 
rape, or robbery ; by which colour he allured to him the hearts of the common 
people. But after that he entered into London, and cut the ropes of the draw¬ 
bridge, striking his sword on London stone, saying, “ Now is Mortimer lord of this 
city,” and rode in every street like a lordly captain. And after a flattering decla¬ 
ration made to the mayor of the city of his thither coming, he departed again into 
Southwark. And upon the third day of July he caused Sir James Fines Lord Say, 
and Treasurer of England, to be brought to the Guildhall of London, and there to 
be arraigned ; which, being before the king’s justices put to answer, desired to be 
tried by his peers, for the longer delay of his life. The captain, perceiving his 
dilatory plea, by force took him from the officers and brought him to the standard 
in Cheap, and there, before his confession ended, caused his head to be cut off, and 
pitched it on a high pole, which was openly borne before him through the streets. 
And this cruel tyrant, not content with the murder of the Lord Say, went to Mile- 
end, and there apprehended Sir James Cromer, then sheriff of Kent, and son-in-law 
to the said Lord Say, and him, without confession or excuse heard, caused there 
likewise to be beheaded, and his head fixed on a pole, and with these two heads 
this bloody butcher entered into the city again, and in despite caused them in every 
street kiss together, to the great detestation of all the beholders. 

After this shameful murder succeeded open rapine and manifest robbery in divers 
houses within the city, aud in especial in the house of Philip Malpas, alderman of 
London, and divers other : over and beside ransoming and fining of divers notable 
merchants, for the tuition and security of their lives and goods ; as Robert Horne, 
alderman, which paid v. C. marks, and yet neither he or no other person was either 
of life or substance in a surety or safeguard. He also put to execution in South¬ 
wark divers persons, some for infringing his rules and precepts, because he would 
be seen indifferent; other he tormented of his old acquaintance, lest they should 
blase and declare his base birth and low lineage, disparaging him from his usurped 
name of Mortimer ; for the which he thought, and doubted not, both to have friends 
and fautors both in London, Kent, and Essex. The wise mayor and sage magis¬ 
trates of the city of London, perceiving themselves neither to be sure of goods nor 
of life well warranted, determined with fear to repel and expulse this mischievous 
head and his ungracious company. And because the Lord Scales was ordained 
keeper of the Tower of London, with Mathew Gough, the often-named captain in 





508 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [HALL’S CHRONICLE. 

Normandy (as you have heard before), they purposed to make them privy both of 
their intent and enterprise. The Lord Scales promised them his aid, with shooting 
of ordinance ; and Mathew Gough was by him appointed to assist the mayor and 
the Londoners, because he was both of manhood and experience greatly renowned 
and noised. So the captains of the city appointed took upon them in the night to 
keep the bridge of London, prohibiting the Kentishmen either to pass or approach. 
The rebels, which never soundly slept for fear of sudden chances, hearing the bridge 
to be kept and manned, ran with great haste to open their passage, where between 
both parties was a fierce and cruel encounter. Mathew Gough, more expert in 
martial feats than the other chieftains of the city, perceiving the Kentishmen 
better to stand to their tackling than his imagination expected, advised his com¬ 
pany no further to proceed toward Southwark till the day appeared ; to the intent 
that the citizens, hearing where the place of the jeopardy rested, might occur their 
enemies and relieve their friends and companions. But this counsel came to small 
effect, for the multitude of the rebels drew the citizens from the stoulps at the 
bridge foot to the drawbridge, and began to set fire in divers houses. Alas ! what 
sorrow it was to behold that miserable chance ; for some, desiring to eschew the 
fire, leapt on his enemy’s weapon, and so died : fearful women, with children in 
their arms, amazed and appalled, leapt into the river ; other, doubting how to save 
themselves between fire, water, and sword, were in their houses suffocated and 
smouldered. Yet the captains, nothing regarding these chances, fought on the 
drawbridge all the night valiantly ; but, in conclusion, the rebels got the draw¬ 
bridge, and drowned many, and slew John Sutton, alderman, and Bobert Heysand, 
a hardy citizen, with many other, beside Mathew Gough, a man of great wit, much 
experience in feats of chivalry, the which in continual wars had valiantly served the 
king and his father in the part beyond the sea (as before ye have heard). But it 
is often seen that he which many times had vanquished his enemies in strange 
countries, and returned again as a conqueror, hath of his own nation afterward been 
shamefully murdered and brought to confusion. This hard and sore conflict en¬ 
dured on the bridge till ix of the clock in the morning, in doubtful chance and 
fortune’s balance. For some time the Londoners were bet back to the stoulps at 
Saint Magnes corner, and suddenly again the rebels were repulsed and driven back 
to the stoulps in Southwark ; so that both parties, being faint, weary, and fatigued, 
agreed to desist from fight, and to leave battle till the next day, upon condition 
that neither Londoners should pass into Southwark, nor the Kentishmen into 
London. 

After this abstinence of war agreed, the lusty Kentish captain, hoping no more 
friends, brake up the gaols of the King’s Bench and Marshalsea, and set at liberty 
a swarm of gallants, both meet for his service and apt for his enterprise. The 
Archbishop of Canterbury, being then Chancellor of England, and for his surety 
lying in the Tower of London, called to him the Bishop of Winchester, which also 
for fear lurked at Halywell. These two prelates, seeing the fury of the Kentish 
people, by reason of their beating back, to be mitigated and minished, passed the 
river of Thames from the Tower into Southwark, bringing with them, under the 
king’s seal, a general pardon unto all the offenders ; which they caused to be openly 
proclaimed and published. Lord ! how glad the poor people were of this pardon 
(yea, more than of the great Jubilee of Borne), and how they accepted the same, 
in so much that the whole multitude, without bidding farewell to their captain, re¬ 
tired the same night, every man to his own home, as men amazed and stricken with 
fear. But John Cade, desperate of succours, which by the friends of the Duke of 
York were to him promised, and seeing his company thus without his knowledge 
suddenly depart, mistrusting the sequel of the matter, departed secretly, in habit 


THE INSURRECTION OF CADE. 


509 


hall’s chronicle.] 


disguised, into Sussex ; but all liis metamorphosis and transfiguration little pre¬ 
vailed, for after a proclamation made that whosoever could apprehend the said Jack 
Cade should have for his pain a M marks, many sought for him, but few espied 
him, till one Alexander Iden, esquire of Kent, found him in a garden, and there, in 
his defence, manfully slew the caitiff Cade, and brought his dead body to London, 
whose head was set on London Bridge. 


138.—THE WHITE AND EED BOSES. 

Hall. 

The first blood shed in the quarrel between the houses of York and Lancaster, 
was at the battle of St. Alban’s, in the 33rd year of the reign of Henry YI. The 
battle of Northampton was five years after. A compromise then took place, which 
is exhibited in the first scene of the third part of Shakspere’s Henry VI. The 
Chronicler Hall thus describes the Parliament sceue, as it is called,— 

“During this trouble was a parliament summoned to begin at Westminster m 
the month of October next following. Before which time Bichard Duke of York, 
being in Ireland, by swift couriers and flying posts, was advertised of the great 
victory gained by his party at the field of Northampton, and also knew that the 
king was now in case to be kept and ordered at his pleasure and will ; wherefore, 
losing no time, nor slugging one hour, he sailed from Develine to Chester with no 
small company, and by long journeys came to the city of London, which he entered 
the Friday next before the feast of Saint Edward the Confessor, with a sword borne 
naked before him, and took his lodging in the king’s own palace, whereupon the 
common people babbled that he should be king, and that king Henry should no 
longer reign. During the time of this parliament, the duke of \ ork, with a bold 
countenance, entered into the chamber of the peers and sat down in the throne 
royal under the cloth of estate (which is the king’s peculiar seat), and in the pre¬ 
sence as well of the nobility as of the spirituality (after a pause made) said these 
words in effect.” * * * * 

« When the duke had thus ended his oration, the lords sat still like images 
graven in the wall, or dumb gods, neither whispering nor speaking, as though their 
mouths had been sowed up. The duke, perceiving none answer to be made to his 
declared purpose, not well content with their sober silence and taciturnity, advised 
them well to digest and ponder the effect of his oration and saying, and so, neither 
fully displeased nor all pleased, departed to his lodging in the king s palace. 

“ After long arguments made, and deliberate consultation had among the peers, 
prelates, and commons of the realm, upon the vigil of All Saints it was condes¬ 
cended and agreed by the three estates, for so much as king Henry had been taken 
as king, by the space of xxxviii years and more, that he should enjoy the name 
and title of king, and have possession of the realm, during his life natural: And if 
he either died or resigned, or forfeited the same for infringing any point of this 
concord, then the said crown and authority royal should immediately be divoluted 
to the duke of York, if he then lived, or else to the next heir of his line and line¬ 
age, and that the duke from thenceforth should be protector and regent of the land. 
Provided alway, that if the king did closely or apertly study or go about to break 
or alter this agreement, or to compass or imagine the death or destruction of the 
said duke or his blood, then he to forfeit the crown, and the duke of York to take 
it. These articles, with many other, were not only written, sealed, and svoin by 
the two parties, but also were enacted in the high court of parliament, For joy 
whereof, the king, having in his company the said duke, rode to the cathedral 
church of Saint Paul within the city of London ; and there, on the day of All 






510 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 1 HALL. 

Saints, went solemnly, with the diadem on his head, in procession, and was lodged 
a good space after in the bishop’s palace, near to the said church. And upon the 
Saturday next ensuing Richard duke of York was, by the sound of a trumpet, 
solemnly proclaimed heir apparent to the crown of England, and protector of the 
realm.” 

The battle of Wakefield soon followed this hollow compromise. Hall writes 
thus :— 

“ The duke of York with his people descended down in good order and array, 
and was suffered to pass forward toward the main battle : but when he was in the 
plain ground between his castle and the town of Wakefield he was environed on 
every side, like a fish in a net, or a deer in a buckstall: so that he, manfully fight¬ 
ing, was within half an hour slain and dead, and his whole army discomfited ; and 
with him died of his trusty friends, his two bastard uncles, Sir John and Sir Hugh 
Mortimers, Sir Davy Halle his chief counsellor, Sir Hugh Hastings, Sir Thomas 
Nevel, William and Thomas Aparre, both brethren, and two thousand and eight 
hundred other, whereof many were young gentlemen and heirs of great parentage 
in the south part, whose lineages revenged their deaths within four months next 
and immediately ensuing. * * * * Whilst this battle w r as in fighting, a 

priest called Sir Robert Aspall, chaplain and schoolmaster to the young earl of 
Rutland, ii son to the abovenamed duke of York, scarce of the age of vii years, a 
fair gentleman, and a maidenlike person, perceiving that flight was more safeguard 
than tarrying, both for him and his master, secretly conveyed the earl out of the 
field, by the Lord Clifford’s band, toward the town ; but ere he could enter into a 
house he was by the said Lord Clifford espied, followed, and taken, and by reason 
of his apparel demanded what he was. The young gentleman, dismayed, had not a 
word to speak, but kneeled on his knees imploring mercy, and desiring grace, both 
with holding up his hands and making dolorous countenance, for his speech was 
gone for fear. Save him, said his chaplain, for he is a prince’s son, and peradven- 
ture may do you good hereafter. With that word, the Lord Clifford marked him, 
and said, By God’s blood, thy father slew mine, and so will I do thee and all thy 
kin : and with that word struck the earl to the heart with his dagger, and bade his 
chaplain bear the earl’s mother and brother word what he had done and said.” 

This ferocious revenge of Clifford is commented upon with just indignation by 
Hall 

“ In this act the Lord Clifford was accompted a tyrant, and no gentleman.” 

He then proceeds to describe the death of the duke of York :—“ This cruel Clifford 
and deadly bloodsupper, not content with this homicide, or childkilling, came to 
the place where the dead corpse of the duke of York lay, and caused his head to be 
stricken off, and set on it a crown of paper, and so fixed it on a pole, and pre¬ 
sented it to the queen, not lying far from the field, in great despite and much deri¬ 
sion, saying, Madam, your war is done, here is your king’s ransom : at which pre¬ 
sent was much joy and great rejoicing ; but many laughed then that sore lamented 
after, as the queen herself, and her son : and many were glad then of other men’s 
deaths, not knowing that their own were near at hand, as the Lord Clifford, and 
other. But, surely, man’s nature is so frail, that things passed be soon forgotten, 
and mischiefs to come be not foreseen. After this victory by the queen and her 
party obtained, she caused the earl of Salisbury, with all the other prisoners, to be 
sent to Pomfret, and there to be beheaded, and sent all their heads, and the duke’s 
head of York, to be set upon poles over the gate of the city of York, id despite of 
them and their lineage.” 

The circumstances attending the death of York are, however, differently told. 
Hoi inshed says :— 


THE WHITE AND RED ROSES. 


511 


HALL.] 




“ Some write that the duke was taken alive, and in derision caused to stand upon 
a molehill, on whose head they put a garland instead of a crown, which they had 
fashioned and made segges or bulrushes, and having so crowned him with that 
garland they kneeled down afore him as the Jews did to Christ in scorn, saying to 
him, Hail, king without rule ; hail, king without heritage ; hail, duke and prince 
without people or possessions. And at length, having thus scorned him with these 
and divers other the like despiteful words, they stroke off his head, which (as ye 
have heard) they presented to the queen.” 

In the beginning of 1471 Edward was a fugitive, almost without a home. The 
great earl of Warwick had placed Henry again in the nominal seat of authority; a 
counter-revolution had been effected. By one of those bold movements which set 
aside all calculation of consequence Edward leaped once more into the throne of 
England. In an age when perjury and murder were equally resorted to, Edward, 
on landing, did not hesitate to disguise his real objects, and to maintain that he 
was in arms only to enforce his claims as duke of York. The narrative of Hall 
thus proceeds :— 

King Edward, without any words spoken to him, came peaceably near to York, 
of whose coming when the citizens were certified, without delay they armed them¬ 
self and came to defend the gates, sending to him two of the chiefest aldermen of 
the city, which earnestly admonished him on their behalf to come not one foot 
nearer, nor temerariously to enter into so great a jeopardy, considering that they 
were fully determined and bent to compel him to retract with dint of sword. King 
Edward, marking well their message, was not a little troubled and unquieted in his 
mind, and driven to seek the farthest point of his wit; for he had both two mis¬ 
chievous and perilous chances even before his eyes, which were hard to be evaded 
or repelled :—one was, if he should go back again he feared lest the rural and 
common people, for covetousness of prey and spoil, would fall on him as one that 
fled away for fear and dread ; the other was, if he should proceed any farther in 
his journey, then might the citizens of York issue out with all their power, and 
suddenly circumvent him and take him. Wherefore he determined to set forward, 
neither with army nor with weapon, but with lowly words and gentle entreatings, 
requiring most heartily the messengers that were sent to declare to the citizens 
that he came neither to demand the realm of England nor the superiority of the 
same, but only the duchy of York, his old inheritance ; the which duchy if he 
might by their means readopt and recover, he would never pass out of his memory 
so great a benefit and so friendly a gratuity to him exhibited. And so, with fair 
words and flattering speech, he dismissed the messengers ; and with good speed 
he and his followed so quickly after, that they were almost at the gates as soon as 
the ambassadors. The citizens, hearing his good answer, that he meant nor in¬ 
tended nothing prejudicial to king Henry, nor his royal authority, were much miti¬ 
gated and cooled, and began to commune with him from their walls, willing him 
to convey himself into some other place without delay, which if he did, they assured 
him that he should have neither hurt nor damage. But he, gently speaking to all 
men, and especially to such as were aldermen, whom he called worshipful, and by 
their proper names them saluted, after many fair promises to them made, exhorted 
and desired them that, by their favourable friendship and friendly permission, he 
might enter into his own town, of the which he had both his name and title. All 
the whole day was consumed in doubtful communication and earnest interlocution. 
The citizens partly won by his fair words, and partly by hope of his large promises, 
fell to this pact and convention, that if king Edward would swear to entertain his 
citizens of York after a gentle sort and fashion, and hereafter to be obedient and 
faithful to all king Henry’s commandments and precepts, that then they would 





512 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


IHALU 


receive him into their city, and aid and comfort him with money. King Edward 
(whom the citizens caiied only duke of York), being glad of this fortunate chance, 
in the next morning, at the gate where he should enter, a priest being ready to say 
mass, in the mass time, receiving the body of our blessed Saviour, Solemnly swear¬ 
ing to keep and observe the two articles above mentioned and agreed upon, when 
it was far unlike that he either intended or purposed to observe any of them, which 
plainly afterwards was to all men manifest.” 

Of the battle of Barnet the following is Hall’s description :— 

“ When the day began to spring the trumpets blew courageously and the battle 
fiercely began. Archers first shot, and bill-men them followed. King Edward, 
having the greater number of men, valiantly set on his enemies. The earl on the 
other side, remembering his ancient fame and renown, manfully withstood him. 
This battle on both sides was sore fought and many slain, in whose rooms succeeded 
ever fresh and fresh men. In the mean season, while all men were together by the 
ears, ever looking to which way fortune would incline, the earl of Warwick, after 
long fight, wisely did perceive his men to be over pressed with the multitude of 
his adversaries ; wherefore he caused new men to relieve them that fought in the 
forward, by reason of which succours king Edward’s part gave a little back (which 
was the cause that some lookers-on, and no fighters, galloped to London, saying 
that the earl had won the field), which thing when Edward did perceive, he with all 
diligence sent fresh men to their succours. 

“ If the battle were fierce and deadly before, now it was crueller, more bloody, 
more fervent and fiery and yet they had fought from morning almost to noon 
without any part getting advantage of other. King Edward, being weary of so long 
a conflict and willing to see an end, caused a great crew of fresh men (which he 
had for this only policy kept all day in store) to set on their enemies, in manner 
being weaiy and fatigate : but although the earl saw these new succours of fresh 
and new men to enter the battle, being nothing afraid, but hoping of the victory 
(knowing perfectly that there was all king Edward’s power), comforted his men, 
being weary, sharply quickening and earnestly desiring them with hardy stomachs 
to bear out this last and final brunt of the battle, and that the field was even at an 
end. But when his soldiers, being sore wounded, wearied with so long a conflict, 
did give little regard to his words, he, being a man of a mind invincible, rushed 
into the midst of his enemies, where as he (aventured so far from his own com¬ 
pany to kill and slay his adversaries that he could not be rescued) was in the 
middle of his enemies stricken down and slain. The Marquis Montacute, thinking 
to succour his brother, which he saw was in great jeopardy, and yet in hope to 
obtain the victory, was likewise overthrown and slain. After the earl was dead his 
party fled, and many were taken, but not one man of name nor of nobility.” 

The following graphic account of the battle of Tewkesbury is from Hall:— 

“ After the field ended king Edward made a proclamation that whosoever could 
bring prince Edward to him, alive or dead, should have an annuity of an cl. during 
his life, and the prince’s life to be saved. Sir Richard Croftes, a wise and a valiant 
knight, nothing mistrusting the king’s former promise, brought forth his prisoner 
prince Edward, being a goodly feminine and a well-featured young gentleman, 
whom when king Edward had well advised, he demanded of him how he durst so 
presumptuously enter into his realm with banner displayed. The prince, being 
bold of stomach and of a good courage, answered, saying, To recover my father's 
kingdom and inheritage from his father and grandfather to him, and from him, 
after him, to me lineally divolutea. At which words king Edward said nothing, 
but with his hand thrust him from him (or, as some say, stroke him with his 
gauntlet), whom incontinent they that strode about, which were George Duke of 


THE WHITE AND RED ROSES. 


HALL.] 


513 


Clarence, Richard Duke of Gloucester, Thomas Marquis Dorset, tmd William Lord 
Hastings, suddenly murdered and piteously mangled. The bitterness of which 
murder some of the actors after in their latter days tasted and essayed by the very 
rod of justice and punishment of God. His body was homely interred with the 
other simple corpses in the church of the monastery of Black Monks in Tewkes¬ 
bury. This was the last civil battle that was fought in king Edward’s days, which 
was gotten the iii day of May, in the x year of his reign, and in the year of our 
Lord Mcccclxxi then being Saturday. And on the Monday next ensuing was Edmund 
duke of Somerset, John Longstrother, Prior of Saint John’s, Sir Garveys Clifton, 
Sir Thomas Tresham, and xii other knights and gentlemen beheaded in the market¬ 
place at Tewkesbury.” 


139.—THE BATTLE OF TOWTON. 

Shakspere. 

[The great battle of Towton is thus described by Hall:—“This battle was sore fought, 
for hope of life was set on side on every part, and taking of prisoners was proclaimed as a 
great offence ; by reason whereof every man determined either to conquer or to die in the 
field. This deadly battle and bloody conflict continued ten hours in doubtful victory, the 
one part sometime flowing and sometime ebbing; but, in conclusion, king Edward so 
courageously comforted his men, refreshing the weary and helping the wounded, that the 
other part was discomforted and overcome, and, like men amazed, fled toward Tadcaster- 
bridge to save themselves. * * * * * This conflict was in manner unnatural, for in 

it the son fought against the father, the brother against the brother, the nephew against the 
uncle, and the tenant against his lord.”] 

Alarum. Enter King Henry. 

K. Hen. This battle fares like to tlie morning’s war, 

When dying clouds contend with growing light; 

What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, 

Can neither call it perfect day nor night. 

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea, 

Forc’d by the tide to combat with the wind ; 

Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea 
Forc’d to retire by fury of the wind : 

Sometime, the flood prevails ; and then, the wind : 

Now, one the better ; then, another best; 

Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, 

Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered : 

So is the equal poise of this fell war. 

Here on this molehill will I sit me down. 

To whom God will, there be the victory ! 

For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, 

Have chid me from the battle ; swearing both 
They prosper best of all when I am thence. 

’Would I were dead ! if God’s good will were so : 

For what is in this world but grief and woe ? 

0 God ! methinks it were a happy life, 

To be no better than a homely swain ; 

To sit upon a hill, as I do now, 

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, 









514 


HALF-HOURS OE ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPEEE, 


Thereby to see the minutes how they run: 

How many make the hour full complete, 

How many hours bring about the.day, 

How many days will finish up the year, 

How many years a mortal man may live. 

When this is known, then to divide the times: 

So many hours must I tend my flock ; 

So many hours must I take my rest ; 

So many hours must I contemplate; 

So many hours must 1 sport myself; 

So many days my ewes have been with young ; 

So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean ; 

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece ; 

So many minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and year3, 

Pass’d over to the end they were created, 

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. 

Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely 1 
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade 
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, 

Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy 
To kings, that fear their subjects’ treachery ? 

O, yes it doth ; a thousand-fold it doth. 

And to conclude,—the shepherd’s homely curds, 

His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle, 

His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade, 

All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, 

Is far beyond a prince’s delicates, 

His viands sparkling in a golden cup, 

His body couched in a curious bed, 

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him. 

Alarum. Enter a Son that has killed his Father , dragging in the dead bodj. 

Son. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. 

This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight, 

May be possessed with some store of crowns 
And I, that haply take them from him now, 

May yet ere night yield both my life and them 
To some man else, as this dead man doth me. 

Who’s this 1 —0 God ! it is my father’s face, 

Whom in this conflict I unawares have kill’d. 

0 heavy times, begetting such events ! 

From London by the king was I press’d forth ; 

My father, being the earl of Warwick’s man. 

Came on the part of York, press’d by his master; 

And I, who at his hands receiv’d my life, 

Have by my hands of life bereaved him. 

Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did ! 

And pardon, father, for I knew not thee ! 

My tears shall wipe away these bloody mark*; 

And no more words till they have flow’d their fill. 

K. E'en. 0 piteous spectacle ! 0 bloody times ! 

Whiles lions war, and battle for their dens, 


THE BATTLE OF TOWTON. 


515 


HAKSPERE.] 

Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity. 

Weep, wretched man, I ’ll aid thee, tear for tear j 
And let our hearts, and eyes, like civil war, 

Be blind with tears, and break o’ercharg’d with grief. 

Enter a Father who has hilled his Son , with the body in his arms 

Fatk. Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me, 

Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold ; 

For I have bought it with an huudred blows. 

But let me see :—is this our foreman’s face ? 

Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son ! 

Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, 

Throw up thine eyes ; see, see, what showers arise, 

Blown with the windy tempest of my heart, 

Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart! 

O, pity, God, this miserable age ! 

What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, 

Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural, 

This deadly quarrel daily doth beget ! 

O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon, 

And hath bereft thee of thy life too late ! 

K. Hen. Woe above woe ! grief more than common grief] 

O, that my death would stay these ruthful deeds ] 

0 pity, pity, gentle Heaven, pity! 

The red rose and the white are on his face, 

The fatal colours of our striving houses : 

The one, his purple blood right well resembles ; 

The other, his pale cheeks, methinks, present : 

Wither one rose, and let the other flourish ! 

If you contend, a thousand lives must wither. 

Son. How will my mother, for a father’s death, 

Take on with me, and ne’er be satisfied ! 

Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son, 

Shed seas of tears, and ne’er be satisfied! 

R. Hen. How will the country, for these woeful chances, 

Mis-think the king, and not be satisfied ! 

Son. Was ever son so rued a father’s death ? 

Fath. Was ever father so bemoan’d a son ? 

K. Hen. Was ever king so griev’d for subjects’ woe? 

Much is your sorrow ; mine, ten times so much. 

Son. I ’ll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill. 

{Exit with the body. 

Fath . These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet; 

My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre ; 

For from my heart thine image ne’er shall go. 

My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell 
And so obsequious will thy father be, 

Sad for the loss of thee, having no more, 

As Priam was for all his valiant sons. 

I’ll bear thee hence ; and let them fight that will 
For I have murder’d where I should not kill. 


[Exit, with the body, 






516 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE. 


140—THE DEATH OE CLARENCE. 

Shakspere, 


Scene. A Room.in the Tower. 

Enter Clarence and Brakenbury. 

Brak. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day ? 

Clar. 0, I have pass’d a miserable night, 

So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, 

That, as I am a Christian faithful man, 

I would not spend another such a night 
Though’t were to buy a world of happy days : 

So full of dismal terror was the time. 

Brak. What was your dream, my lord ? I pray you tell me. 
Clar. Methought that I had broken from the Tower, 

And was embark’d to cross to Burgundy ; 

And in my company my brother Gloster 
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk 
Upon the hatches ; there we look’d toward England, 

And cited up a thousand heavy times, 

During the wars of York and Lancaster 
That had befall’n us. As we pac’d along 
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, 

Methought that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling, 

Struck me, that thought to stay him, over-board, 

Into the tumbling billows of the main. 

O Lord ! methought what pain it was to drown ! 

What dreadful noise of water in mine ears ! 

What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! 

Methought I saw a thousand fearful wracks : 

A thousand men that fishes gnaw’d upon; 

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, 

Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, 

All scatter’d in the bottom of the sea. 

Some lay in dead men’s skulls ; and in those holes 
Where eyes did once inhabit there were crept, 

As’t were in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, 

That woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep, 

And mock’d the dead bones that lay scatter’d by. 

Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death., 

To gaze upon these secrets of the deep ? 

Clar. Methought I had ; and often did I strive 
To yield the ghost: but still the envious flood 
Stopt in my soul, and would not let it forth 
To find the empty, vast, and wand’ring air ; 

But smother’d it within my panting bulk, 

Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. 

Brak. Awak’d you not in this sore agony ? 

Clar. No, no, my dream was lengthen’d after life ; 

0, then began the tempest to my soul! 

I pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood 
With that sour ferryman which poets write of 
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 


THE DEATH OF CLARENCE. 


517 


The first that there did greet my stranger soul, 

Was my great father-in-law. renowned Warwick; 

Who spake aloud,—‘What scourge for perjury 
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence 1 * 

And so he vanish’d : Then came wandering by 
A shadow like an angel with bright hair 
Dabbled in blood ; ho shriek’d out aloud,— 

4 Clarence is come,—false, fleeting, perjur’d Clarence,— 

That stabb’d me in the field by Tewkesbury;— 

Seize on him, furies, take him unto torment!’— 

With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends 
Environ’d me, and howled in mine ears 
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise 
I trembling wak’d, and, for a season after, 

Could not believe but that I was in hell; 

Such terrible impression made my dream. 

Bralc. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you ; 

I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it. 

Clar. 0, Brakenbury, I have done these things,— 

That now give evidence against my soul,— 

For Edward’s sake ; and see how he requites me ! 

O God ! if my deep prayers cannot caapease thee, 

But thou wilt be reveng’d on my misdeeds, 

Yet execute thy wrath on me alone : 

O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children ! 

I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me ; 

My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. 

Brak. I will, my lord: God give your grace good rest !— 

\_Clarence retires. 

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,— 

Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night. 

Princes have but their titles for their glories, 

An outward honour for an inward toil; 

And, for unfelt imaginations, 

They often feel a world of restless cares: 

So that, between their titles, and low name, 

There’s nothing differs but the outward fame. 

Enter the two Murderers. 

1 Murd. Ho ! who’s here ? 

Brak. What wouldst thou, fellow ? and how cam’st thou hither ? 

1 Murd. I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs. 
Brak. What, so brief ? 

2 Murd. ’T is better, sir, than to be tedious :—let him see our 

commission, and talk no more. 

[A paper is delivered to Brakenbury , who reads it, 

Brak. I am in this, commanded to deliver 
The noble duke of Clarence to your hands : 

I will not reason what is meant hereby, 

Because I will be guiltless of the meaning. 

There lies the duke asleep,—and there, the keys. 


518 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE. 


I ’ll to the king ; and signify to him 
That thus I have resign’d to you my charge. 

1 Murd. You may, sir ; ’t is a point of wisdom : 

Fare you well. t Exit Brahei&ury. 

* * * * * * 

1 Murd . Soft ! he wakes. 

2 Murd. Strike. 

1 Murd. No, we ’ll reason with him. 

Clar. Where art thou, keeper f give me a cup of wine. 

1 Murd. You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon. 

Clar. In God’s name, what art thou ? 

1 Murd. A man, as you are. 

Clar. But not, as I am, royal. 

1 Murd. Nor you, as we are, loyal. 

Clar. Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble. 

1 Murd. My voice is now the king’s, my looks mine own. 

Clar. How darkly, and how deadly dost thou speak 1 

Your eyes do menace me : Why look you pale ? 

Who sent you hither 1 Wherefore do you come 

2 Murd. To, to, to- 

Clar. To murther me ? 

Both Murd. Ay, ay. 

Clar. You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so, 

And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it. 

Wherein, my friends, have I offended you ? 

1 Murd. Offended us you have not, but the king. 

Clar. I shall be reconcil’d to him again. 

2 Murd. Never, my lord ; therefore, prepare to die. 

Clar. Are you drawn forth among a world of men, 

To slay the innocent ? What is my offence ? 

Where is the evidence that doth accuse me ? 

What lawful quest have given their verdict up 
Unto the frowning judge ? or who pronounc’d 
The bitter sentence of poor Clarence’ death ? 

Before I be convict by course of law, 

To threaten me with death is most unlawful. 

I charge you, as you hope for any goodness, 

That you depart, and lay no hands on me ; 

The deed you undertake is damnable. 

1 Murd. What we will do we do upon command. 

2 Murd. And he that hath commanded is our king. 

Clar. Erroneous vassal! the great King of kings 

Hath in the table of his law commanded, 

That thou shalt do no murther : Will you then 
Spurn at his edict, and fulfil a man’s ? 

Take heed ; for he holds vengeance in his hand, 

To hurl upon their heads that break his law. 

2 Murd. And that same vengeance doth he hurl on thee, 

For false forswearing, and for murther too : 

Thou didst receive the sacrament to fight 
In quarrel of the house of Lancaster. 

I Murd. And, like a traitor to the name of God, 



SHAKSPERE.] 


THE DEATH OF CLARENCE. 


519 


Didst break that vow ; and with thy treacherous blade 
TJnrip’dst the bowels of thy sovereign’s son. 

2 Murd. Whom thou was sworn to cherish and defend. 

1 Murd. How canst thou urge God’s dreadful law to us, 

When thou hast broke it in such dear degree ? 

Clar. Alas ! for whose sake did I that ill deed 1 
For Edward, for my brother, for his sake: 

He sends you not to murther me for this; 

For in that sin he is as deep as I. 

If God will be avenged for the deed, 

O, know you, yet he doth it publicly ; 

Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm ; 

He needs no indirect or lawless course, 

To cut off those that have offended him. 

1 Murd. Who made thee then a bloody minister, 

When gallant-springing, brave Plantagenet, 

That princely novice, was struck dead by thee ? 

Clar. My brother’s love, the devil, and my rage, 

1 Murd. Thy brother’s love, our duty, and thy faults, 

Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee. 

Clar. If you do love my brother, hate not me; 

I am his brother, and I love him well. 

If you are hir’d for meed, go back again, 

And I will send you to my brother Gloster ; 

Who shall reward you better for my life 
Than Edward will for tidings of my death. 

2 Murd. You are deceiv’d, your brother Gloster hates you. 

Clar. 0, no ; he loves me, and he holds me dear ; 

Go you to him from me. 

Both Murd. Ay, so we will. 

Clar. Tell him, when that our princely father York 
Bless’d his three sons with his victorious arm, 

And charg’d us from his soul to love each other, 

He little thought of this divided friendship : 

Bid Gloster think on this, and he will weep. 

1 Murd. Ay, mill-stones ; as he lesson’d us to weep. 

Clar. 0, do not slander him, for he is kind. 

1 Murd. Bight, as snow in harvest.—Come, you deceive yourself 
’T is he that sends us to destroy you here. 

Clar. It cannot be, for he bewept my fortune. 

And hugg’d me in his arms, and swore, with sobs, 

That he would labour my delivery. 

1 Murd. Why, so he doth, when he delivers you 
From this earth’s thraldom to the joys of heaven. 

2 Murd. Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord. 

Clar. Have you that holy feeling in your souls, 

To counsel me to make my peace with God, 

And are you yet to your own souls so blind, 

That you will war with God, by murthering mo ? 

Oh, sirs, consider, they that set you on 
To do this deed will hate you for the deed. 

2 Murd. What shall we do 


520 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSPERE. 


Clar. Relent, and save your souls. 

1 Murd. Relent ! No. ’T is cowardly and womanish. 

Clar. Not to relent, is beastly, savage, devilish.— 

My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks ; 

0, if thine eye be not a flatterer, 

Come thou on my side, and entreat for me: 

A begging prince, what beggar pities not 1 
Which of you, if you were a prince’s son, 

Being pent from liberty, as I am now 

If two such murtherers as yourselves came to you, 

Would not entreat for life,—as you would beg 
Were you in my distress ? 

2 Murd. Look behind you, my lord. 

1 Murd. Take that, and that; if all this will not do, 

[>Sta6s him. 

I’ll drown you in the malmsey-butt within. 

[Exit, with the body. 

2 Murd. A bloody deed, and desperately despatch’d ! 

How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands 

Of this most grievous murder ! 


141.—THE DEATH OF LORD HASTINGS. 

Sir Thomas More. 

The lord protector caused a council to be set at the Tower on the Friday the 
thirteenth day of June, where was much communing for the honourable solemnity 
of the coronation, of the which the time appointed approached so near that the 
pageants were a making day and night at Westminster, and victual killed which 
afterward was cast away. 

These lords thus sitting communing of this matter, the protector came in 
among them about nine of the clock, saluting them courteously, excusing himself 
that he had been from them so long, saying merely that he had been a sleeper that 
day; and after a little talking with them he said to the Bishop of Ely, My lord, 
you have very good strawberries in your garden at Holborn, I require you let us 
have a mess of them. Gladly, my lord, (q d he.) I would I had some better thing 
as ready to your pleasure as that: and with that in all haste he sent his servant for 
a dish of strawberries. The protector set the lords fast in communing, and there¬ 
upon prayed them to spare him a little, and so he departed, and came again be¬ 
tween ten and eleven of the clock into the chamber all changed, with a sour angry 
countenance, knitting the brows, frowning, and fretting, and gnawing on his lips 
and so set him down in his place. All the lords were dismayed, and sore marvellet 
of this manner and sudden change, and what thing should him ail. When he hac 
sitten a while, thus he began : What were they worthy to have that compass ant 
imagine the destruction of me, being so near of blood to the king, and protecto 
of this his royal realm 1 At which question all the lords sat sore astonished 
musing much by whom the question should be meant, of which every man kne' 
himself clear. 

Then the Lord Hastings, as he that for the familiarity that was between thei 
thought he might be boldest with him, answered and said, That they were worth 
to be punished as heinous traitors, whatsoever they were : and all the other affirme 



> 


SIR THOMAS MORE.] 


THE DEATH OF LORD HASTINGS. 


521 


the same. That is (q d he) yonder sorceress my brother’s wife, and othei with 
her ; meaning the queen. At these words many of the lords were sore abashed 
which favoured her ; but the lord Hastings was better content in his mind that it 
was moved by her than by any other that he loved better, albeit his heart grudged 
that he was not afore made of counsel of this matter, as well as he was of the taking 
of her kindred, and of their putting to death, which were by his assent before 
devised to be beheaded at Pomfret this self-same day, in the which he was not ware 
that it was by other devised that he himself should the same day be beheaded at 
London. Then, said the protector, in what wise that sorceress and other of her 
counsel, as Shore’s wife with her affinity, have by their sorcery and witchcraft thus 
wasted my body : and therewith plucked up his doublet-sleeve to his elbow on his 
left arm, where he showed a wearish withered arm, and small as it were never 
other. And thereupon every man’s mind misgave them, well perceiving that this 
/ matter was but a quarrel, for well they wist that the queen was both too wise to go 
about any such folly, and also, if she would, yet would she of all folk make Shore’s 
wife least of her counsel, whom of all women she most hated as that concubine 
whom the king her husband most loved. 

“ Also there was no man there but knew that his arm was ever such sith the 
day of his birth. Nevertheless the Lord Hastings, which from the death of King 
Edward kept Shore’s wife, whom he somewhat doted in the king’s life, saying, it is 
said that he forbare her for reverence toward lus king, or else of a certain kind of 
fidelity toward his friend ; yet now his heart somewhat grudged to have her whom 
he loved so highly accused, and that as he knew well untruly ; therefore he answered 
and said, Certainly, my lord, if they have so done they be worthy of heinous pun¬ 
ishment.' What ! ’ (q d the protector,) thou servest me, I ween, with if and with 
and : I tell thee they have done it, and that will I make good on thy body, traitor : 
and therewith (as in a great anger) he clapped his fist on the board a great rap ; 
at which token given, one'cried treason without the chamber, and therewith 
a door clapped, and in came rushing men in harness, as many as the chamber could 
hold • and anon the protector said to the Lord Hastings, I arrest thee, traitor ! 
What me my lord 1 q d he. Yea, thee, traitor, q d the protector : and one let fly 
at the Lord Stanley, which shrunk at the stroke, and fell under the table, or else 
his head had been cleft to the teeth, for as shortly as he shrank yet ran the blood 
about his ears. Then was the Archbishop of York, and Doctor Morton Bishop of 
Ely and the Lord Stanley, taken, and divers other, which were bestowed in diveis 
pbambers save the Lord Hastings (whom the protector commanded to speed and 
shrive him apace), For by Saint Paul (q he) I will not dine till I see thy head off. 
It booted him not to ask why, but heavily he took a priest at a venture and made 
a short shrift for a longer would not be suffered, the protector made so much haste 
to his dinner'which might not go to it till this murther were done for saving of 
his ungracious oath. So was he brought forth into tlrn green beside the chapel 
within°the Tower, and his head laid down on a log of timber that lay mere tor 
building of the chapel, and there tyrannously stricken off, and after Ins body and 
head were interred at Windsor, by his master, King Edward the Fourth, whose 

^Now flew the fatiTof this lord’s death through the city and farther about, like 
a wind in every man’s ear ; but the protector immediately after dinner, intending 
to set some colour upon the matter, sent in all the haste for many substantial men 
£ t of the city into the Tower, and at their coming himself with the Duke of Buck- 
ingham stood harnessed in old evil-favoured bnganders such as no man would 
ween that they would have vouchsafed to have put on their backs, except some 
Sudden necessity had constrained them. Then the lord protector showed them 


522 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY 1 . 


[SIR THOMAS MORE. 

that the Lord Hastings and other of his conspiracy had contrived to have suddenly 
destroyed him and the Duke of Buckingham there the same day in council, and 
what they intended farther was yet not well known ; of which their treason he had 
never knowledge before x of the clock the same forenoon, which sudden fear drave 
them to put on such harness as came next to their hands for their defence, and so 
God help them ' that the mischief tuined upon them that would have done it, and 
thus he required them to report. Every man answered fair, as though no man 
mistrusted the matter, which of truth no man believed.” 


142.—THE PRINCES IN THE TOWER. 


Heywood. 


[The tragic story of the murder of Richard’s nephews is thus recorded by the Chronicler, 
on the authority of Sir Thomas More :— 


“ And forasmuch as his mind gave him that, his nephews living, men would not reckon 
that he could have right to the realm, he thought therefore without delay to rid them, as 
though the killing of his kinsmen might end his cause and make him kindly king. Where¬ 
upon he sent John Green, whom he specially trusted, unto Sir Robert Brakenbury, constable 
of the Tower, with a letter and credence also, that the same Sir Robert in any wise should 
put the two children to death. This John Green did his errand to Brakenbury, kneeling 
before Our Lady in the Tower; who plainly answered that he would never put them to 
death to die therefore. With the which answer Green returned, recounting the same to 
king Richard at Warwick, yet on his journey; wherewith he took such displeasure and 
thought, that the same night he said to a secret page of his, Ah, whom shall a man trust ? 
they that I have brought up myself, they that I weened would have most surely served me, 
even those fail me, and at my commandment will do nothing for me. Sir, quoth the page, 
there lieth one in the pallet chamber without, that I dare well say, to do your grace plea¬ 
sure, the thing were right hard that he would refuse : meaning by this James Tyrrel. 

“James Tyrrel devised that they should be murtliered in their beds, and no blood shed: 
to the execution whereof he appointed Miles Forest, one of the four that before kept them, a 
fellow flesh bred in murtlier beforetime ; and to him he joined one John Dighton, his own 
horsekeeper, a big, broad, square, and strong knave. Then, all the other being removed from 
them, this Miles Forest and John Dighton about midnight, the sely children lying in their 
beds, came into the chamber, and suddenly lapped them up amongst the clothes, and so be- 
wrapped them and entangled them, keeping down by force the feather-bed and pillows hard 
unto their mouths, that within a while they smothered and stifled them ; and their breaths 
failing, they gave up to God their innocent souls into the joys of heaven, leaving to the tor 
mentors their bodies dead in the bed ; which after the wretches perceived, first by the strug¬ 
gling with the pangs of death, and after long lying still, to be thoroughly dead, they laid the 
bodies out upon the bed, and fetched James Tyrrel to see them; which when he saw them 
perfectly dead, he caused the murtherers to bury them at the stair foot, meetly deep in the 
ground, under a great heap of stones. 

“Then rode James Tyrrel in great haste to king Richard, and showed him all the 
manner of the murther; who gave him great thanks, and, as men say, there made him 
knight.”] 


Scene I. 


Enter the two young princes, Edward and Richard, with 

and Tyrrel. 


Gloster, Catesby, LoveU % 


P. Ed- Uncle, what gentleman is that ? 

Glos. It is, sweet prince, lieutenant of the Tower. 

P. Ed. Sir, wc are come to be your guests to-night. 
I pray you, tell me, did you ever know 
Our father Edward lodge within this place ? 

Bra. Never to lodge, my liege; but oftentimes. 


i 




THE PRINCES IN THE TOWER. 


523 


HEYWOOD.] 

On other occasions, I have seen him here. 

P. R. Brother, last night, when you did send for me 
My mother told me, hearing we should lodge 
Within the Tower, that it was a prison, 

And therefore marvcll’d that my uncle Gloster, 

Of all the houses for a king’s receipt 

Within this city, had appointed none 

Where you might keep your court but only here. 

Glos. Vile brats ! how they do descant on the Tower! 

My gentle nephew, they were ill advised 
To tutor you with such unfitting terms 
(Who’er they were) against this royal mansion. 

What if some part of it hath been reserv’d 
To be a prison for nobility ? 

Follows it, therefore, that it cannot serve 
To any other use ? Caesar himself, 

That built the same, within it kept his court, 

And many kings since him : the rooms are large, 

The building stately, and for strength beside, 

It is the safest and the surest hold you have. 

P. Ed. Uncle of Gloster ! if you think it so, 

’Tis not for me to contradict your will; 

We must allow it, and are well content. 

Glos. On then, a God’s name ! 

Ed. Yet before we go. 

One question more with you, master Lieutenant: 

We like you well; and, but we do perceive 
More comfort in your looks than in these walls, 

For all our uncle Gloster’s friendly speech, 

Our hearts would be as heavy still as lead. 

I pray you tell me, at which door or gate 
Was it my uncle Clarence did go in, 

When he was sent a pris’ner to this place % 

Bra. At this, my liege ! Why sighs your majesty ? 

P. Ed. He went in here that ne’er came back again! 

But as God hath decreed, so let it be ! 

Come, brother, shall we go ? 

P. R. Yes, brother ; any where with you. 

[Exeunt the Princes , Gloster , and Lovell , Rrackenbury 

and Shore. 

Tyr. (j mils Catesby by the sleeve .) Sir, were it best I did attend 

the duke, 

Or stay his leisure till his back return % 

Cat. I pray you, master Tyrrel, stay without: 

It is not good you should be seen by day 
Within the Tower, especially at this time ; 

I’ll tell his honour of your being here, 

And you shall know his pleasure presently. 

Tyr. Even so, sir. Men would be glad by any means 
To raise themselves, that have been overthrown 
By fortune’s scorn ; and I am one of them. 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HEYWOOD. 


Re-enter the Duke of Gloster. 

Here comes the duke ! 

Glos. Catesby, is this the man ? 

Cat. It is, if’t like your excellency. 

Glos. Come near. 

Thy name, I hear, is Tyrrel, is it not ? 

Tyr. James Tyrrel is my name, my gracious lord ! 

Glos. Welcome ! it should appear that thou hast been 
In better state than now it seems thou art. 

Tyr. I have been, by my fay, my lord ! though now depress’d 
And clouded over with adversity. 

Glos. Be rul’d by me, and thou shalt rise again, 

And prove more happy than thou ever wast 
There is but only two degrees by which 
It shall be needful for thee to ascend, 

And that is, faith and taciturnity. 

Tyr. If ever I prove false unto your grace, 

Convert your favour to afflictions. 

Glos. But can’st thou too be secret ? 

Tyr. Try me, my lord. 

This tongue was never known to be a blab. 

Glos. Thy countenance hath, like a silver key. 

Open’d the closet of my heart. Read there ; 

If, scholar-like, thou can’st expound those lines, 

Thou art the man ordain’d to serve my turn. 

Tyr. So far as my capacity will reach, 

The sense, my lord, is this. This night, you say, 

The two young princes both must suffer death. 

Glos. Thou hast my meaning. Wilt thou do it? speak. 

Tyr. It shall be done. 

Glos. Enough ! come, follow me, 

For thy direction, and for gold to fee 

Such as must aid thee in their tragedy. [E.reunt. 

Scene II.— A Red-room in the Tower. 

Enter the two young Princes , Edward and Richard, in their 

bedgowns and caps. 

Ric. How does your lordship ? 

Ed. Well, good brother Richard. 

How does yourself? you told me your head ached. 

Ric. Indeed it does, my lord! feel with your hands 
How hot it is ! 

Ed. Indeed you have caught cold, 

With sitting yesternight to hear me read. 

I pray thee go to bed, sweet Dick ! poor little heart. 

Ric. You’D give me leave to wait upon your lordship. 

Eel. I had more need, brother, to wait on you, 

For you are sick ; and so am not I. 

Ric. Oh, lord ! metliinks this going to our bed, 

How like it is to going to our grave. 



BEYWOOD.] 


THE PRINCES IN THE TOWER. 


525 


Ed. I pray tliee, do not speak of graves, sweet heart, 

Indeed thou frightest me. 

Ric. Why, my lord brother, did not our tutor teach us, 

That when at night we went unto our bed, 

We still should think we went unto our grave. 

Ed. Yes, that’s true, 

If we should do as ev’ry Christian ought, 

To be prepar’d to die at ev'ry hour. 

But I am heavy. 

Ric. Indeed, and so am I. 

Ed. Then let us say our prayers and go to bed. 

[They kneel, and solemn music within. It ceases and they rise. 
Ric. What, bleeds your grace ? 

Ed. Ay, two drops and no more. 

Ric. God bless us both ; and I desire no more. 

Ed. Brother, see here what David says, and so say I: 

Lord J in thee will I trust, although I die. [ Exeunt. 


143.—BOSWORTH FIELD. 


Hall. 


“ Tidings came that the Earl of Richmond was passed Severn, and come to Shrews¬ 
bury without any detriment or encumbrance. At which message he (Richard) 
was sore moved and broiled with melancholy and dolour ; and cried out, asking 
vengeance of them that contrary to their oath and promise had fraudulently deceived 
hi m .” But with his wonted energy “ he determined himself out of hand the same 
day to occur and resist his adversaries.” He was then “keeping his house in the 
castle of Nottingham.” The Chronicler proceeds: “ Then he, environed with his 
satellites and yeomen of the crown, with a frowning countenance and truculent 
aspect mounted on a great white courser, followed with his footmen, the wings of 
horsemen coasting and ranging on every side. And keeping this array, he with 
great pomp entered the town of Leicester after the sunset.” At Leicester Richard 
slept at a house which still remains. Hutton, in his ‘ Battle of Bosworth Field,’ 
thus describes the old house and its appurtenances “ In the Northgate Street 
vet stands a large handsome half-timber house, with one story projecting over the 
other formerly an inn, the Blue Boar; hence an adjoining street derived its name, 
now corrupted into Blubber-lane. In one of the apartments Richard rested that 
night. The room seems to have been once elegant, though now in disuse. He 
brought his own bedstead, of wood, large, and in some places gilt. It continued 
there 200 years after he left the place, and its remains are now in the possession 
of Alderman Drake. It had a wooden bottom, and under that a false one, of the 
same materials, like a floor and its under ceiling. Between these two bottoms was 
concealed a quantity of gold coin, worth about 300?. of our present money, but 
then worth many times that sum. Thus he personally watched his treasure, ant 

slent on his military chest.” 

“ The Earl of Richmond,” says the Chronicler, “ raised his camp, and departed 
from Lichfield to the town of Tamworth.” Shakspere carefully follows the localities 

of the historians :— „ . . 

“ This foul swine 

Lies now even in the centre of this isle, 

Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn: 

From Tamworth thither is but one day s maich. 



526 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[hall. 


We continue the narrative of Hall :— 

“ In the mean season King Richard (which was appointed now to finish his last 
labour by the very divine justice and providence of God, which called him to con¬ 
dign punishment for his sceleratc merits and mischievous deserts) marched to a 
place meet for two battles to encounter, by a village called Bosworth, not far from 
Leicester, and there he pitched his field, refreshed his soldiers, and took his rest. 
The fame went that he had the same night a dreadful and a terrible dream ; for it 
seemed to him. being asleep, that he saw divers images like terrible devils, which 
pulled and hauled him, not suffering him to take any quiet or rest. The which 
strange vision not so suddenly strake his heart with a sudden fear, but it stuffed 
his head and troubled his mind with many dreadful and busy imaginations ; for in¬ 
continent after, his heart being almost damped, he prognosticated before the doubtful 
chance of the battle to come, not using the alacrity and mirth of mind and of coun¬ 
tenance as he was accustomed to do before he came toward the battle. And lest 
that it might be suspected that he was abashed for fear of his enemies, and for 
that cause looked so piteously, he recited and declared to his familiar friends in 
the morning his wonderful vision and terrible dream.” 

The plan of the battle is minutely detailed in the narratives. According to the 
usual practice of the Chroniclers they give us long orations, by the respective 
leaders, previous to the battle being joined. The legend of ‘ Jocky of Norfolk ’ is 
told thus by Hall:—“ Of the nobility were slain John Duke of Norfolk, which was 
warned by divers to refrain from the field, insomuch that the night before he should 
set forward toward the king one wrote on his gate, 

“Jack of Norfolk, be not too bold, 

For Dykon thy master is bought and sold.” 

The battle and the victory are thus described by Hall with the accustomed spirit 
of these old masters of our language :— 

“ He had scantly finished his saying but the one army espied the other. Lord ! 
how hastily the soldiers buckled their helms ! how quickly the archers bent their 
bows and frushed their feathers ! how readily the billmen shook their bills and 
proved their staves ! ready to approach and join when the terrible trumpet should 
sound the bloody blast to victory or death. Between both armies there was a 
great morass, which the Earl of Richmond left on his right hand, for this intent, 
that it should be on that side a defence for his part : and in so doing he had the 
sun at his back and in the faces of his enemies. When King Richard saw the 
earl’s company was passed the morass, he commanded with all haste to set upon 
them ; then the trumpets blew and the soldiers shouted, and the king’s archers 
courageously let fly their arrows : the earl’s bowmen stood not still, but paid them 
home again. The terrible shot once passed, the armies joined and came to hand- 
strokes, where neither sword nor bill was spared ; at which encounter the Lord 
Stanley joined with the earl. The Earl of Oxford in the mean season, fearing lest 
while his company was fighting they should be compassed and circumvented with 
the multitude of his enemies, gave commandment in every rank that no man should 
be so hardy as go above ten foot from the standard ; which commandment once 
known, they knit themselves together, and ceased a little from fighting. The ad¬ 
versaries, suddenly abashed at the matter, and mistrusting some fraud or deceit, 
began also to pause, and left striking, and not against the wills of many, which had 
liefer had the king destroyed than saved, and therefore they fought very faintly or 
Stood still. The Earl of Oxford, bringing all his band together on the one part, set 
on his enemies freshly. Again, the adversaries perceiving that, placed their men 
slender and thin before, and thick and broad behind, beginning again hardily tne 
battle. While the two forwards thus mortally fought, each intending to vanquish 


BOSWORTH FIELD. 


527 


HALL.] 

and convince the other, King Richard was admonished by his explorators and 
espials that the Earl of Richmond, accompanied with a small number of men of 
arms, was not far off; and as he approached and marched toward him, he perfectly 
knew his personage by certain demonstrations and tokens which he had learnt and 
known of other ; and being inflamed with ire and vexed with outrageous malice, he 
put his spurs to his horse and rode out of the side of the range of his battle, leaving 
the avant-gardes fighting, and like a hungry lion ran with spear in rest toward him. 
The Earl of Richmond perceived well the king furiously coming toward him, an 3, 
by cause the whole hope of his wealth and purpose was to be determined by battle 
he gladly proffered to encounter with him body to body and man to man. King 
Richard set on so sharply at the first brunt that he overthrew the earl’s standard 
and slew Sir William Brandon, his standard-bearer, (which was father to Sir Charles 
Brandon, by King Henry the Eighth created Duke of Suffolk,) and matched hand 
to hand with Sir John Cheinye, a man of great force and strength, which would 
have resisted him, and the said John was by him manfully overthrown, and so he 
making open passage by dint of sword as he went forward, the Earl of Richmond 
withstood his violence and kept him at the sword’s point without advantage longer 
than his companions other thought or judged ; which, being almost in despam of 
victory, were suddenly recomforted by Sir William Stanley, which came to succours 
with iii thousand tall men, at which very instant King Richard’s men were driven 
back and fled, and he himself, manfully fighting in the middle of his enemies, was 
slain and brought to his death as he worthily had deserved. 

“ When the earl had thus obtained victory, and slain his mortal enemy, he 
knelt down and rendered to Almighty God his hearty thanks, with devout and godly 
orisons, beseeching his goodness to send him grace to advance and defend the 
Catholic faith, and to maintain justice and concord amongst his subjects and people, 
by God now to his governance committed and assigned : which prayer finished, he 
replenished with incomparable gladness, ascended up to the top of a little mountain, 
where he not only praised and lauded his valiant soldiers, but also gave unto them 
his hearty thanks, with promise of condign recompense for their fidelity and valiant 
facts, willing and commanding all the hurt and wounded persons to be cured, and 
the dead carcases to be delivered to the sepulchre. Then the people rejoiced and 
clapped hands, crying up to heaven, king Henry, king Henry. When the Lord 
Stanley saw the good will and gratitude of the people, he took the crown of King 
Richard, which was found amongst the spoil in the field, and set it on the earl’s 
head, as though he had been elected king by the voice of the people, as in antient 
times past in divers realms it hath been accustomed, and this was the first sign 
and token of his felicity. 


144—LAMBERT SIMNELL. 

Lord Bacon. 

There followed this year, being the second of the king’s reign, a strange accident 
of state, whereof the relations which we have are so naked, as they leave it scarce 
credible ; not for the nature of it, for it hath fallen out often, but for the manner 
and circumstances of it, especially in the beginnings. Therefore we shall make 
our judgment upon the things themselves, as they give light one to another, and as 
we can dig truth out of the mine. The king was green in his estate ; and contrary 
to his own opinion and desert both, was not without much hatred throughout the 
realm. The root of all was the discountenancing of the House of York ; which 
the general body of the realm still affected. This did alienate the hearts of the 
subjects from him daily more and more, especially when they saw, that after his 



528 


'.CALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[LORD BACON, 

marriage, and after a son born, the king did, nevertheless, not so much as proceed 
to the coronation of the queen, not vouchsafing her the honour of a matrimonial 
crown ; for the coronation of her was not till almost two years after, when danger 
had taught him what to do. But much more when it was spread abroad, whether 
by error or the cunning of malcontents, that the king had a purpose to put to deatH 
Edward Plantagenet closely in the Tower : whose case was so nearly paralleled 
with that of Edward the Fourth’s children, in respect of the blood, like age, and 
the very place of the Tower, as it did refresh and reflect upon the king a most 
odious resemblance, as if he would be another King Richard. And all this time it 
was still whispered everywhere, that at least one of the children of Edward the 
Fourth was living : which bruit was cunningly fomented by such as desired inno¬ 
vation. Neither was the king’s nature and customs greatly fit to disperse these 
mists, but contrariwise, he had a fashion rather to create doubts than assurance. 
Thus was fuel prepared for the spark : the spark, that afterwards kindled such a 
fire and combustion, was at the first contemptible. 

There was a subtle priest called Richard Simon, that lived in Oxford, and had 
to his pupil a baker’s son, named Lambert Simnell, of the age of some fifteen years, 
a comely youth, and well favoured, not without some extraordinary dignity and 
grace of aspect. It came into this priest’s fancy, hearing what men talked, and 
in hope to raise himself to some great bishopric, to cause this lad to counterfeit 
and personate the second son of Edward the Fourth, supposed to be murdered j 
and afterwards, for he had changed his intention in the manage, the Lord Edward 
Plantagenet, then prisoner in the Tower, and accordingly to frame him and instruct 
him in the part he was to play. This is that which, as was touched before, seemeth 
scarcely credible ; not that a false person should be assumed to gain a kingdom, 
for it hath been seen in ancient and late times ; nor that it should come into the 
mind of such an abject fellow to enterprise so great a matter ; for high conceits do 
sometimes conie streaming into the imaginations of base persons, especially when 
they are drunk with news and talk of the people. But here is that which hath no 
appearance: that this priest being utterly unacquainted with the true person 
according to whose pattern he should shape his counterfeit, should think it pos¬ 
sible for him to instruct his player either in gesture or fashions, or in recounting 
past matters of his life and education ; or in fit answers to questions, or the like° 
any ways to come near the resemblance of him whom he was to represent. For 
this lad was not to personate one that had been long before taken out of his cradle 
or conveyed away in his infancy, known to few ; but a youth, that till the age 
almost of ten years had been brought up in a court where infinite eyes had been 
upon him. For King Edward, touched with remorse of his brother" the Duke of 
Clarence’s death, would not indeed restore his son, of whom we speak, to be Duke 
of Claience, but yet created him Earl of Warwick, reviving his honour on the 

mu° tl !i er l S Slde ’ aud USed him honourabl y during his time, though Richard the 
Third afterwards confined him. So that it cannot be, but that some great person 
t lat knew particularly and familiarly Edward Plantagenet, had a hand in the busi¬ 
ness, from whom the priest might take his aim. That which is most probable 
out of the precedent and subsequent acts is, that it was the queen-dowager from 
whom this action had the principal source and motion. For certain it is she was 
a busy negotiating woman, and in her withdrawing chamber had the fortunate 
conspiracy for the king against King Richard the Third been hatched ; which the 
king knew, and remembered perhaps but too well ; and was at this time extremely 
discontent with the king, thinking her daughter, as the king handled the matter 
pot advanced but depressed : and none could hold the book so well to prompt and 
instruct this stage-play as she could. Nevertheless it was not her meaning, nor no 


LAMBERT SIMNELL. 


LORD BACON.] 


529 


more was it the meaning of any of the better and sager sort that favoured this 
enterprise, and knew the secret, that this disguised idol should possess the crown ; 
but at his peril to make way to the overthrow of the king ; and that done they 
had their several hopes and ways. That which doth chiefly fortify this conjecture 
is, that as soon as the matter brake forth in any strength, it was one of the king’s 
first acts to cloister the queen-dowager in the nunnery of Bermondsey, and to take 
away all her lands and estate ; and this by a close council, without any legal pro¬ 
ceeding, upon far-fetched pretences, that she had delivered her two daughters out 
of sanctuary to King Bichard, contrary to promise. Which proceeding being even 
at that time taxed for rigorous and undue, both in matter and manner, makes it 
very probable there was some greater matter against her, which the king upon 
reason of policy, and to avoid envy, would not publish. It is likewise no small 
argument that there was some secret in it, and some suppressing of examinations, 
for that the priest Simon himself, after he was taken, was never brought to execu¬ 
tion : no, not so much as to public trial, as many clergymen were upon less trea¬ 
sons, but was only shut up close in a dungeon. Add to this, that after the Earl 
of Lincoln, a principal person in the House of York, was slain in Stoke-field, the 
king opened himself to some of his council, that he was sorry for the earl’s death, 
because by him, he said, he might have known the bottom of his danger. 

But to return to the narration itself: Simon did first instruct his scholar for 
the part of Bichard, Duke of York, second son to King Edward the Fourth ; arid 
this was at such time as it was voiced, that the king purposed to put to death 
Edward Plantagenet, prisoner in the Tower, whereat there was great murmur. But 
hearing soon after a general bruit that Plantagenet had escaped out of the Tower, 
and thereby finding him so much beloved amongst the people, and such rejoicing 
at his escape the cunning priest changed his copy, and chose now Plantagenet to 
be the subject his pupil should personate, because he was more in the present 
speech and votes of the people ; and it pieced better, and followed more close and 
handsomely, upon the bruit of Plantagenet’s escape. But yet doubting that there 
would be too near looking, and too much perspective into his disguise, if he should 
show it here in England, he thought good, after the manner of scenes in stage 
plays and masks, to show it afar off; and therefore sailed with his scholar into 
Ireland, where the affection to the House of York was most in height. The king 
had been a little improvident in the matters of Ireland, and had not removed officers 
and counsellors, and put in their places, or at least intermingled, persons of whom 
he stood assured, as he should have done, since he knew the strong bent of that 
country towards the House of York ; and that it was a ticklish and unsettled 
state, more easy to receive distempers and mutations than England was. But 
trusting to the reputation of his victories and successes in England, he thought he 
should have time enough to extend his cares afterwards to that second kingdom. 

Wherefore, through this neglect, upon the coming of Simon with his pretended 
Plantagenet into Ireland, all things w T ere prepared for revolt and sedition, almost 
as if they had been set and plotted beforehand. Simon’s first address was to the 
Lord Thomas Fitz-Gerard, Earl of Kildare, and deputy of Ireland ; before whose 
eyes he did cast such a mist, by his own insinuation, and by the carriage of his 
youth that expressed a natural princely behaviour, as joined perhaps with some 
inward vapours of ambition and affection in the earl’s own mind, left him fully 
possessed, that it was the true Plantagenet. The earl presently communicated the 
matter with some of the nobles, and others there, at the first secretly ; but finding 
them of like affection to himself, he suffered it of purpose to vent and pass abroad ; 
because they thought it not safe to resolve till they had a taste of the people’s 

inclination. But if the great ones were in forwardness, the people were in fury, 

M M 


530 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[LORD BACON. 

entertaining this airy body or phantasm with incredible affection ; partly out of 
their great devotion to the House of York ; partly out of a proud humour in the 
nation to give a king to the realm of England. Neither did the party in this heat 
of affection, much trouble themselves with the attainder of George, Duke of Cla¬ 
rence ; having newly learned by the king’s example, that attainders do not inter¬ 
rupt the conveying of title to the crown. And as for the daughters of King Edward 
the Fourth, they thought King Bichard had said enough for them ; and took them 
to be but as of the king’s party, because they were in his power and at his dispos¬ 
ing. So that with marvellous consent and applause, this counterfeit Plantagenet 
was brought with great solemnity to the castle of Dublin, and there saluted, served, 
and honoured asking ; the boy becoming it well, and doing nothing that did bewray 
the baseness of his condition. And within a few days after he was proclaimed 
king in Dublin, by the name of King Edward the Sixth ; there being not a sword 
drawn in King Henry his quarrel. 

[The cause of the Pretender had been taken up in England, most probably with a view to 
ulterior objects of his own, by John, Earl of Lincoln, son of John de la Pole, Duke of 
Suffolk, and of Elizabeth, lung Edward the Fourth’s eldest sister, a man of great wit and 
courage; two thousand Germans had come over under the command of Martin Swart, a valiant 
and experienced captain ; and the rebels in these circumstances determined to leave Ireland, 
and to strike their great blow in England. “ The king, in the mean time, who at the first 
when he heard what was done in Ireland, though it troubled him, yet thought he should be 
well enough able to scatter the Irish as a flight of birds, and rattle away this swarm of bees 
with their king; when he heard afterwards that the Earl of Lincoln was embarked in the 
action, and that the Lady Margaret was declared for it, he apprehended the danger in a true 
degree as it was, and saw plainly that his kingdom must again be put to the stake, and that 
he must fight for it.” And here is the narrative of the bloody issue as it was determined 
near Newark, in Nottinghamshire, on the 16th of June, 1487 :—] 

The earl, nothing dismayed, came forward that day unto a little village called 
Stoke, and there encamped that night, upon the brow or hanging of a hill. The 
king next day presented him battle upon the plain, the fields there being open and 
champain. The earl courageously came down and joined battle with him. Con¬ 
cerning which battle the relations that are left unto us are so naked and negli¬ 
gent , though it be an action of so recent memory, as they rather declare the 
success of the day than the manner of the fight. They say that the king divided 
his army into three battails, whereof the vant-guard only, well strengthened with 
wings, came to fight: that the fight was fierce and obstinate, and lasted three hours 
before the victory inclined either way, save that judgment might be made by that 
the king’s vant-guard of itself maintained fight against the whole power of the 
enemies (the other two battails remaining out of action), what the success was 
likely to be in the end—that Martin Swart with his Germans performed bravely, 
and so did those few English that were ou that side : neither did the Irish fail in 
courage or fierceness, but, being almost naked men, only armed with darts and 
skeins, it was rather an execution than a fight upon them, insomuch as the furious 
slaughter of them was a great discouragement and appalment to the rest : that 
there died upon the place all the chieftains, that is, the Earl of Lincoln, the Earl 
of Kildare, Francis Lord Lovel, Martin Swart, and Sir Thomas Broughton, all 
making good the fight without any ground given. Only of the Lord Lovel there 
went a report that he fled, and swam over Trent on horseback, but could not 
recover the farther side by reason of the steepness of the bank, and so was drowned 
in the river. But another report leaves him not there, but that he lived long after 
m a cave or vault. The number that was slain in the field was, of the enemy’s 
part, four thousand at the least, and of the king’s part, one half his vant-guard, 
besides many hurt, but none of name. There were taken prisoners, amongst others,' 







LAMBERT SIMNELL. 


531 


LORD BACON.] 

the counterfeit Plantagenet, now Lambert Simnell again, and the crafty priest his 
tutor. For Lambert, the king would not take his life, both out of magnanimity, 
taking him but as an image of wax that others had tempered and moulded, and 
likewise out of wisdom, thinking that if he suffered death he would be forgotten 
too soon, but, being kept alive, he would be a continual spectacle, and a kind of 
remedy against the like enchantments of people in time to come. For which 
cause he was taken into service in his court to a base office in his kitchen, so that, 
in a kind of “ mattacina ” of human fortune, he turned a broach that had worn a 
crown ; whereas fortune commonly doth not bring in a comedy or farce after a 
tragedy. And afterwards he was preferred to be one of the king’s falconers. As 
to the priest, he was committed close prisoner, and heard of no more—the king 
loving to seal up his own dangers. 


145.—PERKIN WAEBECK.—I. 

Lord Bacon. 

At this time the king began again to be haunted with spirits, by the magic ana 
curious arts of the lady Margaret, who raised up the ghost of Bichard, duke of 
York, second son to king Edward the Fourth, to walk and vex the king. This was 
a finer counterfeit stone than Lambert Simnell, better done and worn upon greater 
hands, being graced after with the wearing of a king of France and a king of Scot¬ 
land, not of a duchess of Burgundy only. And for Simnell, there was not much in 
him more than that he was a handsome boy, and did not shame his robes. But 
this youth of whom we are now to speak was such a mercurial as the like hath 
seldom been known, and could make his own part if at any time he chanced to be 
out. Wherefore this, being one of the strangest examples of a personation that ever 
was, in elder or later times, it deserveth to be discovered and related at the full— 
although the king’s manner of showing things by pieces and by dark lights hath so 
muffled it, that it hath been left almost as a mystery to this day. 

The lady Margaret, whom the king’s friends called Juno, because she was to him 
as Juno was to iEneas, stirring both heaven and hell to do him mischief, for a 
foundation of her particular practices against him, did continually, by all means 
possible, nourish, maintain, and divulge the flying opinion that Richard, duke of 
York, second son to Edward the Fourth, was not murdered in the Tower, as was 
given out, but saved alive. For that those who were employed in that barbarous 
fact, having destroyed the elder brother, were stricken with remorse and compas¬ 
sion towards the younger, and set him privily at liberty to seek his fortune. This 
lure she cast abroad, thinking that this fame and belief, together with the fresh 
example of Lambert Simnell would draw, at one time or other, some birds to strike 
upon it. She used likewise a further diligence, not committing all to chance, for 
she had some secret espials, like to the Turks’ commissioners for children of tri¬ 
bute, to look abroad for hsndsome and graceful youths, to make Plantagenets and 
dukes of York. At the last she did light on one, in whom all things met as one 
would wish, to serve her turn for a counterfeit Richard, duke of York. 

This was Perkin Warbeck, whose adventures we shall now describe, for first, 
the years agreed well. Secondly, he was a youth of fine favour and shape. But 
more than that, he had such a crafty and bewitching fashion, both to move pity, 
and to induce belief, as was like a kind of fascination and enchantment to those 
that saw him or heard him. Thirdly, he had been from his childhood such a 
wanderer, or, as the king called him, such a land-loper, as it was extreme hard to 
hunt out his nest and parents. Neither again could any man, by company or cou- 



532 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[LORD BACON. 

versing with him, be able to say or detect well what he was, he did so flit from 
place to place. Lastly, there was a circumstance, which is mentioned by one that 
wrote in the same time, that is very likely to have made somewhat to the matter, 
which is, that king Edward the Fourth was his godfather. Which, as it is some¬ 
what suspicious for a wanton prince to become gossip in so mean a house, and 
might make a man think that he might indeed have in him some base blood of the 
house of York ; so at the least, though that were not, it might give the occasion to 
the boy, in being called king Edward’s godson, or, perhaps in sport, king Edward’s 
son, to entertain such thoughts in his head. For tutor he had none, for ought 
that appears, as Lambert Simnell had, until he came unto the lady Margaret, who 
instructed him. 

Thus, therefore, it came to pass : there was a townsman of Tournay, that had 
borne office in that town, whose name was John Osbeck, a convert Jew, married to 
Catharine de Faro, whose business drew him to live for a time with his wife at Lon¬ 
don, in king Edward the Fourth’s days. During which time he had a son by her, 
and, being known in the court, the king, either out of a religious nobleness because 
he was a convert, or upon some private acquaintance, did him the honour to be 
god-father to his child, and named him Peter. But afterwards, proving a dainty 
and effeminate youth, he was commonly called by the diminutive of his name, 
Peterkin or Perkin. For as for the name of Warbeck, it was given him w T hen they 
did but guess at it, before examinations had been taken. But yet he had been so 
much talked of by that name, as it stuck by him after his true name of Osbeck 
was known. While he was a young child, his parents returned with him to Tour- 
nay. There he was placed in the house of a kinsman of his, called John Stenbeck, 
at Antwerp, and so roved up and down between Antwerp and Tournay, and other 
towns of Flanders for a good time, living much in English company and having the 
English tongue perfect. In which time, being grown a comely youth, he was brought 
by some of the espials of the lady Margaret into her presence. Who, viewing him 
well, and seeing that he had a face and personage that would bear a noble fortune, 
and finding him otherwise of a fine spirit and winning behaviour, thought she had 
now found a curious piece of marble to carve out an image of a duke of York. She 
kept him by her a great while, but with extreme secrecy. The while she instructed 
him by many Cabinet conferences. First, in princely behaviour and gesture, teach¬ 
ing him how he should keep state, and yet with a modest sense of his misfortunes. 
Then she informed him of all the circumstances and particulars that concerned the 
person of Richard, duke of York, which he was to act, describing unto him the 
personages, lineaments, and features of the king and queen, his pretended parents; 
and of his brother and sisters, and divers others, that were nearest him in his 
childhood, together with all passages, some secret, some common, that were fit for 
a child’s memory, until the death of king Edward. Then she added the particulars 
of the time from the king’s death, until he and his brother were committed to the 
Tower, as well during the time he was abroad as while he was in sanctuary. As 
for the times while he was in the Tower, and the manner of his brother’s death, 
and his own escape, she knew they were things, that a very few could control. 
And therefore she taught him only to tell a smooth and likely tale of those matters, 
warning him not to vary from it. It was agreed likewise between them what account 
he should give of his peregrination abroad, intermixing many things which were 
true, and such as they knew others could testify, for the credit of the rest, but 
still making them to hang together with the part he was to play. She taught him 
likewise how to avoid sundry captious and tempting questions which were like to 
oe asked of him. But in this she found him so nimble and shifting, as she trusted 
much to his own wit and readiness, and therefore laboured the less in it. Lastly 



PERKIN WARBECK.-1. 


533 


LORD BACON.] 

she raised his thoughts with some present rewards, and further promises, setting 
before him chiefly the glory and fortune of a crown if things went well, and a sure 
refuge to her court if the worst should fall. After such time as she thought he 
was perfect in his lesson, she began to cast with herself from what coast this blaz¬ 
ing star should first appear, and at what time it must be upon the horizon of Ire¬ 
land, for there had the like meteor strong influence before. The time of the ap¬ 
parition to be when the king should be engaged into a war with France. But well 
she knew that whatsoever should come from her would be held suspected. And 
therefore if he should go out of Flanders immediately into Ireland, she might be 
thought to have some hand in it. And besides, the time was not yet ripe, for that 
the two kings were then upon terms of peace. Therefore she wheeled about; and 
to put all suspicion afar off, and loth to keep him any longer by her, for that she 
knew secrets are not long-lived, she sent him unknown into Portugal, with the lady 
Brampton, an English lady, that embarked for Portugal at that time, with some 
privado of her own, to have an eye upon him, and there he was to remain, and to 
expect her further directions. In the meantime she omitted not to prepare things 
for his better welcome and accepting, not only in the kingdom of Ireland, but in 
the court of France. He continued in Portugal about a year, and by that time the 
king of England called his Parliament, as hath been said, and declared open war 
against France. Now did the sign reign, and the constellation was come, under 
which Perkin should appear. And therefore he was straight sent unto by the 
duchess, to go for Ireland, according to the first designment. In Ireland he did 
arrive, at the town of Cork. When he was thither come, his own tale was, when 
he made his confession afterwards, that the Irishmen, finding him in some good 
clothes, came flocking about him, and bare him down that he was the duke of 
Clarence that had been there before. And after, that he was Eichard the Third’s 
base son. And lastly, that he was Eichard, duke of York, second son to Edward 
the Fourth. But that he, for his part, renounced all these things, and offered to 
swear, upon the Holy Evangelists, that he was no such man ; till at last they 
forced it upon him, and bade him fear nothing, and so forth. But the truth is, that 
immediately upon his coming into Ireland, he took upon him the said person of 
the duke of York, and drew unto him complices and partakers by all the means 
he could devise. Insomuch as he wrote his letters unto the earls of Desmond and 
Kildare, to come in to his aid, and be of his party j the originals of which letters 
are yet extant. 

Somewhat before this time, the duchess had also gained unto her a near servant 
of King Henry’s own, one Stephen Frion, his secretary for the French tongue ; an 
active man, but turbulent and discontented. This Frion had fled over to Charles, 
the French king, and put himself into his service, at such time as he began to be 
in open enmity with the king. Now King Charles, when he understood of the 
person and attempts of Perkin, ready of himself to embrace all advantages against 
the King of England, instigated by Frion, and formerly prepared by the Lady Mar¬ 
garet, forthwith despatched one Lucas and this Frion, in the nature of ambassadors 
to Perkin, to advertise him of the king’s good inclination to him, and that he was 
resolved to aid him to recover his right against King Henry, an usurper of England, 
and an enemy of France ; and wished him to come over unto him at Paris. Perkin 
thought himself in heaven now that he was invited by so great a king in so honour¬ 
able a manner. And imparting unto his friends in Ireland, for their encouragement, 
now fortune called him, and what great hopes he had, sailed piesently into Fiance. 
When he was come into the court of France, the king received him with great 
honour, saluted and styled him by the name of the Duke of York : lodged him and 
accommodated him in great stato. And the better to give him the representation 


534 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [LORD BACON 

and the countenance of a prince, assigned him a guard for his person, whereof the 
Lord Congresall was captain. The courtiers likewise, though it be ill mocking with 
the French, applied themselves to their king’s bent, seeing there was reason of state 
for it. At the same time there repaired unto Perkin divers Englishmen of quality ; 
Sir George Neville, Sir John Taylor, and about one hundred more, and amongst the 
rest this Stephen Frion, of whom we spake, who followed his fortune both then 
and for a long time after, and was, indeed, his principal counsellor and instrument 
in all his proceedings. But all this on the French king’s part was but a trick, the 
better to bow King Henry to peace. And therefore upon the first grain of incense 
that was sacrificed upon the altar of peace at Boloign, Perkin was smoked away. 
Yet would not the French king deliver him up to King Henry, as he was laboured 
to do, for his honour’s sake, but warned him away and dismissed him. And Perkin, 
on his part, was as ready to be gone, doubting he might be caught up underhand. 
He therefore took his way into Flanders, unto the Duchess of Burgundy, pretending 
that, having been variously tossed by fortune, he directed his course thither as to 
a safe harbour, noways taking knowledge that he had ever been there before, but 
as if that had been his first address. The Duchess, on the other part, made it as 
new strange to see him, pretending, at the first, that she was taught and made wise, 
by the example of Lambert Simnell, how she did admit of any counterfeit stuff, 
though, even in that, she said, she was not fully satisfied. She pretended at the 
first, and that was ever in the presence of others, to pose him and sift him, thereby 
to try whether he were indeed the very Duke of York or no. But seeming to 
receive full satisfaction by his answers, she then feigned herself to be transported, 
with a kind of astonishment, mixt of joy and wonder, at his miraculous deliverance, 
receiving him as if he were risen from death to life, and inferring that God, who 
had in such wonderful manner preserved him from death, did likewise reserve him 
for some great and prosperous fortune. As for his dismission out of France, they 
interpreted it, not as if he were detected or neglected for a counterfeit deceiver, but 
contrariwise, that it did show manifestly unto the world that he was some great 
matter, for that it was his abandoning that, in effect, made the peace, being no more 
but the sacrificing of a poor distressed prince unto the utility and ambition of two 
mighty monarchs. Neither was Perkin, for his part, wanting to himself, either in 
gracious or princely behaviour, or in ready and apposite answers, or in contenting 
and caressing those that did apply themselves unto him, or in pretty scorn and dis¬ 
dain to those that seemed to doubt of him ; but in all tilings did notably acquit 
himself, insomuch as it was generally believed, as well amongst great persons as 
amongst the vulgar, that he was indeed Duke Bichard. Nay, himself, with long and 
continual counterfeiting, and with oft telling a lie, was turned by habit almost into 
the thing he seemed to be, and from a liar to a believer. The Duchess, therefore, 
as in a case out of doubt, did him all princely honour, calling him always by the 
name of her nephew, and giving the delicate title of the white rose of England, and 
appointed him a guard of thirty persons, halberdiers, clad in a party-coloured livery 
of murrey and blue, to attend his person. Her court, likewise, and generally the 
Dutch and strangers, in their usage towards him, expressed no less respect. 

The news hereof came blazing and thundering over into England, that the Duke 
of York was sure alive. As for the name of Perkin Warbeck, it was not at that 
time come to light, but all the news ran upon the Duke of York ; that he had been 
entertained in. Ireland, bought and sold in France, and was now plainly avowed and 
in great honour in Flanders. These fames took hold of divers ; in some upon 
discontent, in some upon ambition, in some upon levity and desire of change and 
in some few upon conscience and belief, but in most upon simplicity, and in divers 
out of dependence upon some of the better sort, who did in secret favour and nourish 



PERKIN WARBECK.-1. 


535 


LORD BACON.] 

these bruits. And it was not long ere these rumours of novelty had begotten others 
of scandal and murmur against the king and his Government, taxing him for a great 
taxer of his people, and discountenance!’ of his nobility. The loss of Britain and 
the peace with France were not forgotten. But chiefly they fell upon the wrong 
that he did his queen, in that he did not reign in her right. Wherefore, they 
said, that God had now brought to light a masculine branch of the house of York, 
that would not be at his courtesy, howsoever he did depress his poor lady. And 
yet, as it fareth with things which are current with the multitude, and which they 
affect, these fames grew so general, as the authors were lost in the generality of 
the speakers ; they being like running weeds that have no certain root, or like 
footings up and down impossible to be traced. But after awhile these ill humours 
drew to an head, and settled secretly in some eminent jiersons, which were Sir 
William Stanley, lord chamberlain of the king’s household, the Lord Fitzwater, Sir 
Simon Mountfort, and Sir Thomas Thwaites. These entered into a secret conspi¬ 
racy to favour Duke Bichard’s title. Nevertheless none engaged their fortunes in 
this business openly but two, Sir Bobert Clifford and Master William Barley, who 
sailed over into Flanders, sent, indeed, from the party of the conspirators here, to 
understand the truth of those things that passed there, and not without some 
help of monies from hence ; provisionally to be delivered, if they found and were 
satisfied that there was truth in these pretences. The person of Sir Bobert Clifford, 
being a gentleman of fame and family, was extremely welcome to the Lady Margaret, 
who, after she had conference with him, brought him to the sight of Perkin, with 
whom he had often speech and discourse. So that in the end, won either by the 
duchess to affect, or by Perkin to believe, he wrote back into England, that he 
knew the person of Bichard, Duke of York, as well as he knew his own, and that 
this young man was undoubtedly he. By this means all things grew prepared td 
revolt and sedition here, and the conspiracy came to have a correspondence between 
Flanders and England. 

The king, on his part, was not asleep, but to arm or levy forces yet, he thought 
would but show fear, and do this idol too much worship. Nevertheless the ports 
he did shut up, or at least kept a watch on them, that none should pass to or fro 
that was suspected : but, for the rest, he chose to work by countermine. His pur¬ 
poses were two the one to lay open the abuse, the other to bieak the knot of the 
conspirators. To detect the abuse there were but two ways: the first, to make it 
manifest to the world that the Duke of York was indeed murdered, the other to 
prove that, were he dead or alive, yet Perkin was a counteifeit. Foi the fiist, thus 
it stood. There were but four persons that could speak upon knowledge to the 
murder of the Duke of York ; Sir James Tirrel, the employed man fiom King 
Bichard ; John Dighton and Miles Forrest, his servants, the two butchers or tor¬ 
mentors,’ and the priest of the Tower that buried them. Of which four, Miles For¬ 
rest and the priest were dead, and there remained alive only Sir James Tirrel and 
John Dighton. These two the king caused to be committed to the Tower, and 
examined touching the manner of the death of the two innocent princes. They 
agreed both in a tale, as the king gave out, to this effect: that King Bichard 
having directed his warrant for the putting of them to death to Brackenbury, the 
lieutenant of the lower, was by him refused. Whereupon the king directed Ins 
warrant to Sir James Tirrel, to receive the keys of the Tower from the lieutenant, 
for the space of a night, for the king’s special service. That Sir James Tirrel ac¬ 
cordingly repaired to the Tower by night, attended by his two servants afore¬ 
named" 3 whom he had chosen for that purpose. That himself stood at the stair- 
foot and sent these two villains to execute the murder. That they smothered them 
in their bed, and, that done, called up their master to see their naked dead bodies, 
which they had laid forth. That they were buried under the stairs, and some 


536 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[LORD BACON. 

stones cast upon them. That when the report was made to king Richard, that his 
will was done, he gave Sir James Tirrel great thanks, but took exception to the 
place of their burial, being too base for them that were king’s children. Where¬ 
upon, another night, by the king’s warrant renewed, their bodies were removed by 
the priest of the Tower, and buried by him in some place which, by means of the 
priest’s death soon after, could not be known. Thus much was then delivered 
abroad, to be the effect of those examinations ; but the king, nevertheless, made 
no use of them in any of his declarations, whereby, as it seems, those examinations 
left the business somewhat perplexed. And as for Sir James Tirrel, he was soon 
after beheaded in the Tower-yard for other matters of treason. But John Dighton, 
who, it seemeth, spake best for the king, was forthwith set at liberty, and was the 
principal means of divulging this tradition. Therefore, this kind of proof being 
left so naked, the king used the more diligence in the latter, for the tracing of 
Perkin. To this purpose he sent abroad into several parts, and especially into 
Flanders, divers secret and nimble scouts and spies, some feigning themselves to 
fly over unto Perkin, and to adhere to him, and some under other pretences, to 
learn, search, and discover all the circumstances and particulars of Perkin’s parents, 
birth, person, travels up and down, and in brief to have a journal as it were of his 
life and doings. He furnished these, his employed men, liberally with money, to 
draw on and reward intelligences ; giving them also in charge, to advertise con¬ 
tinually what they found, and, nevertheless, still go on. And ever, as one adver¬ 
tisement and discovery called up another, he employed other new men, where the 
business did require it. Others he employed in a more special nature and trust, 
to be his pioneers in the main countermine. These were directed to insinuate 
themselves into the familiarity and confidence of the principal persons of the party 
in Flanders, and so to learn what associates they had, and correspondents, either 
here in England or abroad ; and how far every one engaged, and what new ones 
they meant afterwards to try or board. And as this for the persons, so for the 
actions themselves, to discover to the bottom, as they could, the utmost of Perkin’s 
and the conspirators, their intention, hopes, and practices. These latter best-be- 
trust spies had some of them further instructions to practise and draw off the best 
friends and servants of Perkin, by making remonstrance to them how weakly his 
enterprise and holies were built, and with how prudent and potent a king they 
had to deal; and to reconcile them to the king with promise of pardon and good 
conditions of reward. And, above the rest, to assail, sap, and work into the con¬ 
stancy of Sir Robert Clifford, and to win him, if they could, being the man that 
knew most of their secrets, and who, being won away, would most appal and dis¬ 
courage the rest, and in a manner break the knot. 

There is a strange tradition that the king, being lost in a wood of suspicions, 
and not knowing whom to trust, had both intelligence with the confessors and 
chaplains of divers great men ; and for the better credit of his espials abroad with 
the contrary side, did use to have them cursed at Paul’s, by name, amongst the 
bead-roll of the king’s enemies, according to the custom of those times. These 
espials plied their charge so roundly, as the king had an anatomy of Perkin alive, 
and was likewise well informed of the particular correspondent conspirators in 
England, and many other mysteries were revealed : and Sir Robert Clifford in espe¬ 
cial won to be assured to the king, and industrious and officious for his service. 
The king, therefore, receiving a rich return of his diligence, and great satisfaction 
touching a number of particulars, first divulged and spread abroad the imposture 
and juggling of Perkin’s person and travels, with the circumstances thereof through¬ 
out the realm ; not by proclamation, because things were yet in examination, and 
so might receive the more or the less, but by court fames, which commonly print 
better than printed proclamations Then thought he it also time to send an ambas- 





lord bacon.] 


PERKIN WARBECK.-1. 


537 


sage unto Archduke Philip into Flanders, for the abandoning and dismissing of 
Perkin. Herein he employed Sir Edward Poynings and Sir William Warham, doctor 
of the canon law. The archduke was then young, and governed by his council, 
before whom the ambassadors had audience, and Dr. Warham spake in this manner : 

“ My lords, the king our master is very sorry that, England and your country 
here of Flanders having been counted as man and wife for so long a time, now this 
country of all others should be the stage where a base counterfeit should play the 
part of a King of England ; not only to his grace’s disquiet and dishonour, but to 
the scorn and reproach of all sovereign princes. To counterfeit the dead image of 
a king in his coin is an high offence by all laws, but to counterfeit the living 
image of a king in his person, exceedeth all falsifications, except it should be that 
of a Mahomet, or an Antichrist, that counterfeit divine honour. The king hath too 
great an opinion of this sage council, to think that any of you is caught with this 
fable, though way may be given by you to the passion of some, the thing in itself 
is so improbable. To set testimonies aside of the death of Duke Richard, which 
the king hath upon record, plain and infallible, because they may be thought to be 
in the king’s own power, let the thing testify for itself. Sense and reason no power 
can command. Is it possible, trow you, that King Richard should damn his so-ul 
and foul his name with so abominable a murder, and yet not mend his case ? Or 
do you think that men of blood, that were his instruments, did turn to pity m the 
midst of their execution ? Whereas, in cruel and savage beasts, and men also, the 
first draught of blood doth yet make them more fierce and enraged. Do you not 
know that the bloody executioners of tyrants do go to such errands with an halter 
about their neck ; so that if they perform not they are sure to die for it 1 And 
do you think that these men would hazard their own lives for sparing another’s ? 
Admit they should have saved him, what should they have done with him ? Turn 
him into London streets, that the watchmen or any passenger that should light? 
upon him might carry him before a justice, and so all come to light ? . Or should 
they have kept him by them secretly ? That surely would have required a great 
deal of care, charge, and continual fear. But, my lords, I labour too much m a 


clear business. The king is so wise, and hath so good friends abroad, as now he 
knoweth Duke Perkin from his cradle. And because he is a great. prince, if you 
have any good poet here, he can help him with notes to write his life ; and to 
parallel him with Lambert Simnell, now the king’s falconer. And therefore to 
speak plainly to your lordships, it is the strangest thing in the world that the 
Lady Margaret, excuse us if we name her, whose malice to the king is both cause¬ 
less and endless should now, when she is old, at the time when other women give 
over child-bearing, bring forth two such monsters ; being not the births ^ ot nine 



or ten months but of many years. And whereas other natural mothers bring forth 


538 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[LORD BACON. 


146 .—THE CORNISH INSURRECTION. 

[Lord Bacon. 

The Cornish being a race of men, stout of stomach, mighty of body and limb, 
and that lived hardy in a barren country, and many of them could, for a need, live 
under ground, that were tinners. They muttered extremely, that it was a thing 
not to be suffered, that for a little stir of the Scots, soon blown over, they should 
be thus grinded to powder with payments ; and said it was for them to pay that 
had too much, and lived idly. But they would eat their bread they got with the 
sweat of their brows, and no man should take it from them. And as in the tides 
of people once up, there want not commonly stirring winds to make them more 
rough ; so this people did light upon two ringleaders or captains of the rout. The 
one was one Michael Joseph, a blacksmith or farrier, of Bodmin, a notable talking 
fellow, and no less desirous to be talked of. The other was Thomas Flammock, a 
lawyer, who, by telling his neighbours commonly upon any occasion that the law 
was on their side, had gotten great sway amongst them. This man talked learnedly, 
and as if he could tell how to make a rebellion, and never break the peace. He 
told the people, that subsidies were not to be granted, nor levied in this case ; that 
is, for wars of Scotland ; for that the law had provided another course, by service 
of escuage, for those journeys ; much less when all was quiet, and war was made 
but a pretence to poll and pill the people. And therefore that it was good they 
should not stand now like sheep before the shearers, but put on harness, and take 
weapons in their hands. Yet to do no creature hurt, but go and deliver the king 
a strong petition for the laying down of those grievous payments, and for the 
punishment of those that had given him that counsel ; to make others beware 
how they did the like in time to come. And said, for his part he did not see how 
they could do the duty of true Englishmen, and good liege-men, except they did 
deliver the king from such wicked ones, that would destroy both him and the 
country. Their aim was at Archbishop Morton and Sir Reginald Bray, who were 
the king’s screens in this envy. 

After that these two, Flammock and the blacksmith, had by joint and several 
pratings found tokens of consent in the multitude, they offered themselves to lead 
them, until they should hear of better men to be their leaders, which they said 
would be ere long: telling them further, that they would be but their servants, 
and first in every danger : but doubted not but to make both the west-end and the 
east-end of England to meet in so good a quarrel ; and that all, rightly understood, 
was but for the king’s service. The people upon these seditious instigations, did 
arm, most of them with bows and arrows, and bills, and such other weapons of 
rude and country people, and forthwith under the command of their leaders, which 
in such cases is ever at pleasure, marched out of Cornwall through Devonshire 
unto Taunton in Somersetshire, without any slaughter, violence, or spoil of the 
country. At Taunton they killed in fury an officious and eager commissioner for 
the subsidy, whom they called the Provost of Perin. Thence they marched to 
Wells, where the Lord Audley, with whom their leaders had before some secret 
intelligence, a nobleman of an ancient family, but unquiet and popular, and aspir¬ 
ing to ruin, came in to them, and was by them, with great gladness and cries of 
joy, accepted as their general: they being now proud that they were led by a noble¬ 
man. The Lord Audley led them on from Wells to Salisbury, and from Salisbury 
to Winchester. Thence the foolish people, who, in effect, led their leaders, had a 
mind to be led into Kent, fancying that the people there would join with them ; 
contrary to all reason or judgment, considering the Kentish men had showed great 
loyalty and affection to the king so lately before. But the rude people had heard 




THE CORNISH INSURRECTION. 


539 


LORD BACON.] 

Flammock say, that Kent was never conquered, and tliat they were the freest 
people of England. And upon these vain noises, they looked for great matters at 
their hands, in a cause which they conceited to be for the liberty of the subject. 
But when they were come into Kent, the country was so well settled, both by the 
king’s late kind usage towards them, and by the credit and power of the Earl of 
Kent, the Lord Abergavenny, and the Lord Cobham, as neither gentleman nor 
yeoman came in to their aid, which did much damp and dismay many of the 
simpler sort ; insomuch as divers of them did secretly fly from the army, and 
went home : but the sturdier sort, and those that were most engaged, stood by it, 
and rather waxed proud, than failed in hopes and courage. For as it did somewhat 
appal them, that the people came not in to them, so it did no less encourage them, 
that the king’s forces had not set upon them, having marched from the west unto 
the east of England. Wherefore they kept on their way, and encamped upon 
Blacklieath, between Greenwich and Eltham, threatening either to bid battle to the 
king, for now the seas went higher than to Morton and Bray, or to take London 
within his view ; imagining with themselves there to find no less fear than wealth. 

When therefore the rebels were encamped on Blacklieath, upon the hill, whence 
they might behold the city of London, and the fair valley about it ; the king know¬ 
ing well, that it stood him upon, by how much the more he had hitherto protracted 
the time in not encountering them, by so much the sooner to despatch with them, 
that it might appear to have been no coldness in fore-slowing, but wisdom in 
choosing his time ; resolved with all speed to assail them, and yet with that provi¬ 
dence and surety, as should leave little to venture or fortune. And having very 
great and puissant forces about him, the better to master all events and accidents, 
he divided them into three parts ; the first was led by the Earl of Oxford in chief, 
assisted by> the Earls of Essex and Suffolk. These noblemen were appointed, with 
some cornets of horse and bands of foot, and good store of artillery, wheeling about 
to put themselves beyond the hill where the rebels were encamped ; and to beset 
all the skirts and descents thereof, except those that lay towards London ; whereby 
to have these wild beasts, as it were, in a toil. The second part of his foices, 
which were those that were to be most in action, and upon which he xelied most 
for the fortune of the day, he did assign to be led by the lord chambeilain, who 
was appointed to set upon the rebels in front, from that side which is towards 
London. The third part of his forces, being likewise great and brave forces, he 
retained about himself, to be ready upon all events to restore the fight, or consum¬ 
mate the victory; and meanwhile to secure the city. And for that purpose he 
encamped in person in St. George’s Fields, putting himself between the city and 
the rebels. But the city of London, specially at the first, upon the near encamping 
of the rebels, was in great tumult: as it useth to be with wealthy and populous 
cities, especially those which for greatness and fortune are queens of their regions, 
who seldom see out of their windows or from their towers, an army of enemies. 
But that which troubled them most, was the conceit, that they dealt with a rout 
of people, with whom there was no composition or condition, or orderly treating, 
if need were; but likely to be bent altogether upon rapine and spoil. And 
although they had heard that* the rebels had behaved themselves quietly and 
modestly by the way as they went ; yet they doubted much that would not last, 
but rather make them more hungry, and more in appetite to fall upon spoil in the 
end. Wherefore there was great running to and fro of people, some to the gates, 
some to the walls, some to the water-side : giving themselves alarms and panic 
fears continually. Nevertheless both Tate the lord mayor, and Shaw and Haddon 
the sheriffs, did their parts, stoutly and well, in arming and ordering the people. 
And the king likewise did adjoin some captains of experience in the wars to advise 


540 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[LORD BACON. 

and assist tlie citizens. But soon after, when they understood that the king had 
so ordered the matter, that the rebels must win three battles, before they could 
approach the city, and that he had put his own person between the rebels and 
them, and that the great care was, rather how to impound the rebels that none of 
them might escape, than that any doubt was made to vanquish them ; they grew 
to be quiet and out of fear ; the rather for the confidence they reposed, which was 
not small, in the three leaders, Oxford, Essex, and D’Aubigny ; all men well famed 
and loved amongst the people. As for Jaspar, Duke of Bedford, whom the king 
used to employ with the first in his wars, he was then sick and died soon after. 

It was the two and twentieth of June, and a Saturday, which was the day of the 
week the king fancied, when the battle was fought: though the king had, by all 
the art he could devise, given out a false day, as if he prepared to give the rebels 
battle on the Monday following, the better to find them unprovided, and in disarray. 
The lords that were appointed to circle the hill, had some days before planted them¬ 
selves, as at the receipt, in places convenient. In the afternoon, towards the decline 
of the day, which was done the better to keep the rebels in opinion that they 
should not fight that day, the Lord D’Aubigny marched on towards them, and first 
beat some troops of them from Deptford-bridge, where they fought manfully ; but 
being in no great number, were soon driven back, and fled up to their main army 
upon the hill. The army at that time, hearing of the approach of the king’s forces, 
were putting themselves in array, not without much confusion. But neither had 
they placed, upon the first high ground, towards the bridge, any forces to second 
the troops below, that kept the bridge ; neither had they brought forwards their 
main battle, which stood in array far into the heath, near to the ascent of the hill. 
So that the earl with his forces mounted the hill, and recovered the plain without 
resistance. The Lord D’Aubigny charged them with great fury ; insomuch as it 
had like, by accident, to have brandled the fortune of the day : for, by inconsiderate 
forwardness in fighting in the head of his troops, he was taken by the rebels, but 
immediately rescued and delivered. The rebels maintained the fight for a small 
time, and for their persons showed no want of courage ; but being ill armed, and 
ill led, and without horse or artillery, they were with no great difficulty cut in 
pieces, and put to flight. And for their three leaders the Lord Audley, the black¬ 
smith, and Flammock, as commonly the captains of commotions are but half-couraged 
men, suffered themselves to be taken alive. The number slain on the rebels’ part 
were some two thousand men : their army amounting, as it is said, unto the number 
of sixteen thousand. The rest were, in effect, all taken ; for that the hill, as was 
said, was encompassed with the king’s forces round about. On the king’s part 
there died about three hundred, most of them shot with arrows, which were re¬ 
ported to be of the length of a tailor’s yard : so strong and mighty a bow the 
Cornish men were said to draw. 

The victory thus obtained, the king created divers bannerets, as well upon Black- 
heath, where his lieutenant had won the field, whither he rode in person to perform 
the said creation, as in St. George’s Fields, where his own person had been encamped. 
And for matter of liberality, he did, by open edict, give the goods of all the pri¬ 
soners unto those that had taken them ; either to take them in kind or compound 
for them as they could. After matter of honour and liberality, followed matter of 
severity and execution. The Lord Audley was led from Newgate to Tower-hill in 
a paper coat painted with his own arms ; the arms reversed, the coat torn, and'he 
at Tower-hill beheaded. Flammock and the blacksmith were hanged, drawn and 
quartered at Tyburn : the blacksmith taking pleasure upon the hurdle, as it seemeth 
by words that he uttered, to think that he should be famous in after-times. The 
king was once in mind to have sent down Flammock and the blacksmith to have 






LORD BACON.] 


THE CORNISH INSURRECTION. 


541 


been executed in Cornwall, for the more terror ; but being advertised that the 
country was yet unquiet and boiling, he thought better not to irritate the people 
further. All the rest were pardoned by proclamation, and to take out their pardons 
under seal, as many as would. So that, more than the blood drawn in the field, 
the king did satisfy himself with the lives of only three offenders, for the expiation 
of this great rebellion. 


147.—PEEKIN WAEBECK.— II. 


Lord Bacon. 


The King of Scotland, though he would not formally retract his judgment of 
Perkin, wherein he had engaged himself so far ; yet in his private opinion, upon 
often speech with the Englishmen, and divers other advertisements, began to suspect 
him for a counterfeit. Wherefore in a noble fashion he called him unto him, and 
recounted the benefits and favours that he had done him in making him his ally, 
and in provoking a mighty and opulent king by an offensive war in his quarrel, for 
the space of two years together ; nay more, that he had refused an honourable 
peace, whereof he had a fair offer, if he would have delivered him ; and that, to 
keep his promise with him, he had deeply offended both his nobles and people 
whom he might not hold in any long discontent; and therefore required him to 
think of his own fortunes, and to choose out some fitter place for his exile : telling 
him withal, that he could not say, but the English had forsaken him befoie the 
Scottish for that, upon two several trials, none had declared themselves on bis 
side • but nevertheless he would make good what he said to him at his first re¬ 
ceiving which was that he should not repent him for putting himself into his 
hands for that he would not cast him off, but help him with shipping and means 
to transport him where he should desire. Perkin, not descending at all from his 
sta^e-like greatness, answered the king in few words, that he saw his time was not 
yet come ; but whatsoever his fortunes were, lie should both think and speak 
honour of the king. Taking his leave, he would not think on Flanders, doubting 
it was but hollow ground for him since the treaty of the archduke concluded the 
year before ; but took his lady, and such followers as would not leave him, anc 

sailed over into Ireland. • • • * , ■, , 

All this while the rebellion of Cornwall, whereof we have spoken seemed to 

have no relation to Perkin ; save that perhaps Perkin’s proclamation had stricken 
upon the right vein, in promising to laydown exactions and payments, and so 
hid made them now and then have a kind thought on Perkun 
bubbles by much stirring began to meet, as they use to do upon the top 
water The king’s lenity, by that time the Cornish rebels who were taken and 
pardoned, and, J it was said, many of them sold by them that had tab.eri hern for 
twelve pence and two shillings a piece, were come down into their eountiy, had 
rather Emboldened them than reclaimed them ; insomuch as they stuck not to say 
to their neTghboL and countrymen, that the king did well to pardon hem, for 

W °When r perkin heard this news, he began to take heart again, and advised upon 
it with his council, which were 

for debt ; Skelton, a tailor ; and Astley, a scnvener ,101 j 



512 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[LORD BACON 

These told him, that he was mightily overseen, both when he went into Kent, and 
when he went into Scotland ; the one being a place so near London, and under the 
king’s nose ; and the other a nation so distasted with the people of England, that 
if they had loved him never so well, yet they could never have taken his part in 
that company. But if he had been so happy as to have been in Cornwall at the 
first, when the people began to take arms there, he had been crowned at West¬ 
minster before this time. For, these kings, as he had now experience, would sell 
jDOor princes for shoes. But he must rely wholly upon people ; and therefore ad¬ 
vised him to sail over with all possible speed into Cornwall; which accordingly he 
did, having in his company four small barks, with some six score or seven score 
fighting men. He arrived in September at Whitsand-Bay, and forthwith came to 
Bodmin, the blacksmith’s town ; where there assembled unto him to the number 
of three thousand men of the rude people. There he set forth a new proclamation, 
stroking the people with fair promises, and humouring them with invectives against 
the king and his government. And as it fareth with smoke, that never loseth 
itself till it be at the highest ; he did now before his end raise his style, entitling 
himself no more Bichard, Duke of York, but Bichard the Fourth, King of England. 
His council advised him by all means to make himself master of some good walled 
town ; as well to make his men find the sweetness of rich spoils, and to allure to 
him all loose and lost people, by like hopes of booty ; as to be a sure retreat to his 
forces, in case they should have any ill day, or unlucky chance in the field. Where¬ 
fore they took heart to them, and went on, and besieged the city of Exeter, the 
principal town for strength and wealth in those parts. .... 

Perkin, hearing this thunder of arms, and preparations against him from so many 
parts, raised his siege, and marched to Taunton ; beginning already to squint one 
eye upon the crown and another upon the sanctuary ; though the Cornish men 
were become, like metal often fired and quenched, churlish, and that would sooner 
break than bow ; swearing and vowing not to leave him, till the uttermost drop of 
their blood were spilt. He was at his rising from Exeter between six and seven 
thousand strong, many having come unto him after he was set before Exeter, upon 
fame of so great an enterprise, and to partake of the spoil ; though upon the rais¬ 
ing of his siege some did slip away. When he was come near Taunton, he dissem¬ 
bled all fear, and seemed all the day to use diligence in preparing all things ready 
to fight. But about midnight he fled with three score horse to Bewdley in the 
New Forest, where he and divers of his company registered themselves sanctuary- 
men, leaving his Cornish men to the four winds ; but yet thereby easing them of 
their vow, and using his wonted compassion, not to be by when his subjects’ blood 
should be spilt. The king, as soon as he heard of Perkin’s flight, sent presently 
five hundred horse to pursue and apprehend him, before he should get either to 
tne sea, or to that same little island called a sanctuary. But they came too late 
for the latter of these. Therefore all they could do, was to beset the sanctuary, and 
to maintain a strong watch about it, till the king’s pleasure were further known. 
As for the rest of the rebels, they, being destituted of their head, without stroke 
stricken, submitted themselves unto the king’s mercy. And the king, who com¬ 
monly drew blood, as physicians do, rather to save life than to spill -it, and was 
never cruel when he was secure ; now he saw the danger was past, pardoned 
them all in the end, except some few desperate persons, which he reserved 
to be executed, the better to set off his mercy towards the rest. There were 
also sent with all speed some horse to St. Michael’s .Mount in Cornwall, where 
the lady Catharine Gordon was left by her husband, whom in all fortunes she en¬ 
tirely loved ; adding the virtues of a wife to the virtues of her sex. The king 
sent in the greater diligence, not knowing whether she might be with child,whereby 








543 


LORD BACON.] PERKIN WARBECK.-II. 

the business would not have ended in Perkin’s person. When she was brought tc 
the king, it was commonly said, that the king received her not only with com¬ 
passion, but with affection ; pity giving more impression to her excellent beauty. 
"Wherefore comforting her, to serve as well his eye as his fame, he sent her to his 
queen to remain with her ; giving her very honourable allowance for the support 
of her estate, which she enjoyed both during the king’s life and many years after. 
The name of the white rose, which had been given to her husband’s false title, was 
continued in common speech to her true beauty. 

The king did also, while he was at Exeter, appoint the lord Darcy, and others, 
commissioners, for the fining of all such as were of any value, or had any hand or 
partaking in the aid or comfort of Perkin, or the Cornish men, either in the field 
or in the flight. 

These commissioners proceeded with such strictness and severity, as did much 
obscure the king’s mercy in sparing of blood, with the bleeding of so mnch trea¬ 
sure. Perkin was brought unto the king’s court, but not to the king’s presence ; 
though the king, to satisfy his curiosity, saw him sometimes out of a window, or in 
passage. He was in shew at liberty, but guarded with all care and watch that was 
possible, and willed to follow the king to London. But from his first appearance 
upon the stage, in his new person of a sycophant, or juggler, instead of his former 
person of a prince, all men may think how he was exposed to the derision not only 
of the courtiers, but also of the common people, who flocked about him as he went 
along: that one might know afar off where the owl was by the flight of birds ; 
some mocking, some wondering, some cursing, some prying and picking matter out 
of his countenance and gesture to talk of: so that the false honour and respects, 
which he had so long enjoyed, was plentifully repaid in scorn and contempt. As 
soon as he was coma to London, the king gave also the city the solace of this Maj - 
game ; for he was conveyed leisurely on horseback, but not in any ignominious 
fashion, through Cheapside and Cornhill, to the Tower, and from thence back again 
unto Westminster, with the churm of a thousand taunts and reproaches. But to 
amend the show, there followed a little distance of Perkin, an inward counsellor of 
his, one that had been serjeant farrier to the king. This fellow, when Perkin took 
sanctuary, chose rather to take an holy habit than an holy place, and clad himself 
like an hermit, and in that weed wandered about the country, till he was discovered 
and taken. But this man was bound hand and foot upon the horse, and came not 
back with Perkin, but was left at the Tower, and within few days after executed. Soon 
after, now that Perkin could tell better what himself was, he was diligently 
examined ; and after his confession taken, an extract was made of such parts of 
them as were thought fit to be divulged, which was printed and dispersed abroad ; 
wherein the king did himself no right ; for as there was a laboured tale of parti¬ 
culars, of Perkin’s father and mother, and grandsire and grandmother, and uncles 
and cousins, by names and sirnames, and from what places he travelled up and 
down ; so there was little or nothing to purpose of anything concerning his de¬ 
signs, or any practices that had been held with him ; nor the duchess of Burgundy 
herself, that all the world did take knowledge of, as the person that had put life 
and being into the whole business, so much as named or pointed at. So that men 
missing of that they looked for, looked about for they knew not what, and were in 
more doubt than before ; but the king chose rather not to satisfy, than to kindle 

coals. >t 

It was not long but Perkin, who was made of quicksilver, which is hard to hold 

or imprison, began to stir. For deceiving his keepers, he took him to his heels, 
and made speed to the sea-coasts. But presently all corners were laid for him, and 
such diligent pursuit and search made, as he was fain to turn back, and get him to 


544 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [LORD BACON. 

the house of Bethlehem, called the priory of Sheen (which had the privilege of 
Sanctuary), and put himself into the hands of the prior of that monastery. The 
prior was thought an holy man, and much reverenced in those days. lie came to 
the king, and besought the king for Perkin’s life only, leaving him otherwise to the 
king’s discretion. Many about the king were again more hot than ever, to have 
the king take him forth and hang him. But the king, that had an high stomach, 
and could not hate any that he despised, bid, u Take him forth, and set the knave 
in the stock and so promising the prior his life, he caused him to be brought 
forth. And within two or three days after, upon a scaffold set up in the palace 
court at Westminster, he was fettered and set in the stocks for the whole day. 
And the next day after, the like was done by him at the cross in Cheapside, and 
in both places he read his confession, of which we made mention before ; and was 
from Cheapside conveyed and laid up in the Tower. . . 

But it was ordained, that this winding-ivy of a Plantagenet should kill the true 
tree itself. For Perkin, after he had been awhile in the Tower, began to insinuate 
himself into the favour and kindness of his keepers, servants to the lieutenant of 
the Tower, Sir John Digby, being four in number ; Strangeways, Blewet, Astwood, 
and Long Boger. These varlets, with mountains of promises, he sought to corrupt, 
to obtain his escape ; but knowing well, that his own fortunes were made so con¬ 
temptible, as he could feed no man’s hopes, and by hopes he must work, for re¬ 
wards he had none, he had contrived with himself a vast and tragical plot ; which 
was, to draw into his company Edward Plantagenet, earl of Warwick, then prisoner 
in the Tower ; whom the weary life of a long imprisonment, and the often 
and renewing fears of being put to death, had softened to take any impres¬ 
sion of counsel for his liberty. This young prince he thought these servants 
would look upon, though not upon himself; and therefore, after that by some 
message by one or two of them, he had tasted of the earl’s consent; it was agreed 
that these four should murder their master, the lieutenant, secretly, in the night, 
and make their best of such money and portable goods of his, as they should find 
ready at hand, and get the keys of the Tower, and presently let forth Perkin and 
the earl. But this conspiracy was revealed in time, before it could be executed. 
And in this again the opinion of the king’s great wisdom did surcharge him with a 
sinister fame, that Perkin was but his bait, to entrap the earl of Warwick. And 
in the very instant while this conspiracy was in working, as if that also had been 
the king’s industry, it was fatal, that there should break forth a counterfeit earl of 
Warwick, a cordwainer’s son, whose name was Balph Wilford ; a young man taught 
and set on by an Augustin friar, called Patrick. They both from the parts of 
Suffolk came forwards into Kent, where they did not only privily and underhand 
give out that this Wilford was the true earl of Warwick, but also the friar, finding 
some light credence in the people, took the boldness in the pulpit to declare as 
much, and to incite the people to come in to his aid. Whereupon they were both 
presently apprehended, and the young fellow executed, and the friar condemned to 
perpetual imprisonment. This also happening so opportunely, to represent the 
danger to the king’s estate from the earl of Warwick, and thereby to colour the 
king's severity that followed ; together with the madness of the friar so vainly and 
desperately to divulge a treason, before it had gotten any manner of strength: and 
the saving of the friar’s life, which nevertheless was, indeed, but the privileges of 
his order ; and the pity in the common people, which if it run in a strong stream, 
doth ever cast up scandal and envy, made it generally rather talked than believed 
that all was but the king’s device. But howsoever it were, hereupon Perkin, that 
had offended against grace now the third time, was at the last proceeded with, and 
by commissioners of oyer and determiner, arraigned at Westminster, upon divers 



PERKIN WARBECK.-II. 


545 


LORD BACON. J 

treasons committed and perpetrated after his coming on land, within this king¬ 
dom, for so the judges advised, for that he was a foreigner, and condemned, and a 
few days after executed at Tyburn ; where he did again openly read his confession, 
and take it upon his death to be true. This was the end of this little cockatrice of 
a king, that was able to destroy those that did not espy him first. It was one of 
the longest plays of that kind that hath been in memory, and might perhaps have 
had another end, if he had not met with a king both wise, stout, and fortunate. 


148.—THE TRAGEDY OF PERKIN WARBECK. 

Rev. James White. 

[The story of Perkin Warbeck will always be interesting to the readers of English history 
from the mystery that hangs over the nature of his claims. Lord Bacon takes an unfavour¬ 
able view of his pretensions, as may he expected from his character and the period in which 
he wrote. It would not have been safe in the reign of a Tudor to have maintained the legi¬ 
timacy of the son of Edward the Fourth. Yet even through the hostile account of the 
courtiers of the powers that were, it is easy to perceive that the Pretender possessed great 
and estimable qualities. His expostulation with the Scottish James against the unnecessary 
severity of his treatment of the English peasantry, shows either his wise policy or his good 
heart. * His being acknowledged by the Duchess of Burgundy, sister of Edward, his marriage 
with a lady of the blood royal of Scotland, his reception by many of the adherents of Henry, 
and his acquaintance with the personages and circumstances of the English court, are difficult 
to understand on the theory of his being a low and cunningly tutored impostor. 

By some, his noble appearance and resemblance to the handsome Edward are accounted 
for by supposing him to have heen a natural son of that dissolute king; but others, and espe¬ 
cially Mr. Bailey in his interesting history of the Tower, have advanced very strong arguments 
in favour of his legitimacy, and the truth of the story of his escape. Mr. Bailey sees no con 
vincing proof of the murder of the two princes from the discovery of the children’s bones 
under°a staircase in the Tower, and finds reasons for justifying or excusing the recantation 
of his claims, which Perkin Warbeck publicly made a short time before his execution. That 
Henry the Seventh cleared the way for the ill-omened marriage of his son Arthur with Cath¬ 
erine of Castille hy the deaths of Edward Earl of Warwick and Perkin Warbeck is well known ; 
and perhaps a confession wrung from a person at the point of death, deluded to the last with 
hopes of pardon, deserted by his supporters, and probably worked upon by the priests in 
alliance with the throne, is not much to be relied on as a proof of his imposture. It is even 
possible to suppose, that for a time he may have been persuaded of the falsehood of his claims, 
and brought to distrust the recollections of his childhood, which the lapse of so many years 
and such varied adventures must have rendered obscuie and confused.] 

Scene I. 

The outside of tlie Abbey of Beaulieu. The great gate closed. 

Enter Henry, UrswicJc, Attendants, Guards. 

Hen. So this is Beaulieu Sanctuary.—Set it here. [They 'place a chair . 
I ’ll see the very opening of the door, 

Now that old Marden’s tale has tam’d his pride, [Sits. 

How say you, deep Divines, that in our hearts 
A natural instinct bids us spare our kin % 

Why, here is our sweet cousin, this young York, 

This son of our sweet other cousin, cousin Edward,— 

Brother of our sweet other cousin, our dear wife, 

And yet we love him not. 

jj rS ' Your grace forgets 

That a king’s heart has higher claims, than love 
To his own kindred. v 




546 


HALF HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[ REV. J. WHITE. 


Hen . True,—I had forgot. 

A crown and cowl do equally sear up 
The natural issues of affection. 

Is’t so ? 

Urs. Aye, truly. 

Hen. But although I climb 

Mountingly o’er the body of this youth, 

A round is out of the ladder, and I stop 
Mid way ; so high, ’twere giddy to look down. 

Urs. A round,—I scarce conceive— 

Hen. Dull, froward priest! 

What boots that Perkin fill a grave as deep 
As the earth’s centre, if survive that other, 

That Warwick, son of malmsey-drinking Clarence, 

Heir of the throne, if York were moved from his path ? 

Urswick, why all the labours I’ve gone through, 

And this the happiest labour of them all, 

Were but to lift the crown from Richard’s head, 

To place it upon Edward’s ; While our own, 

Bent reverent and bare !—A game’s half lost 
When but half won. How say you 1 
Urs. He’s a youth 

Tender and timid, the young Earl of Warwick. 

And if this Richard— [He stops confused. 

Hen. Pause not for a name. 

Urs. Who is of manlier thews, were safely sped, 

That other might be moved to turn his mind 
Prom earthly things, to scorn the pomp and toys 
Of this vain world, and don the peaceful gown 
Of our meek church. 

Hen. A priest ? Nay, Heav’n forefend ! 

Ambition may be quelled in a lay heart, 

But when it fires a Churchman’s,—never, never ! 

When will this Perkin forth ? 

Urs. Ere sound of twelve, 

The Abbot says. 

Hen. What says the minster clock 1 
Urs. It wants two minutes. 

Hen. {To himself) If Elizabeth 

Our wife, were but to see him, natural blood 
AVould warm to him. White roses grow in groups. 

She shall not see him, for the sound of his voice, 

They say, is like his father’s, and his eyes 
Have the same look. 

The clock strikes—the doors open—the procession begins. 

I would not change this hour 
Of vengeance on the hated Yorks, the foes 
Of me and mine, for all that earth can give ! 

York and the Duchess advance from the gate. 

Here comes the villain Edward’s son. Thank heaven, 

The fools are blind ! 

{Aloud) Bring me this Warbeck forward ! 



WHITE.] THE TRAGEDY OF PERKIN WARBECK. 

tfrs. (to York.) His grace will see you. 

York advances. 

Hen. So Sir, so—you ’re come ! 

You set a price upon our head. We thank you, 

You valued it so high. What value, Sir 
Place you upon your own ? 

or k. The life of others. 

Grant me their lives ; they were misled, deceived ; 

Pardon them, Sir ! And take this worthless head 
Bent at your feet. 

Hen. (aside.) His father’s second self ! 

(Aloud.) You bargain well. Have you forgotten, Sir, 

Your head is ours already, yours and theirs. 

York. I might have kept my sanctuary, Sir, 

And wandered from this land untouched, unscathed, 

Carrying where’ er I went, for forty days, 

The Church’s holy helm upon my head. 

I lift the Church’s helm, my head is bare ; 

Take it,—but spare these men. 

Hen. What are you, Sir ? 

We thought you were our royal cousin of York, 

King Edward’s son, true brother of our wife, 

True prince, true king. What! Have you changed your note ? 
Are you our rightful Lord 1 
York. I thought so, Sir. 

Hen. But you confess you now ?—Listen, my Lords, 

Listen, good gentlemen, followers of this man. 

Now Sir, say on. Are you of royal blood 1 
York. No. 

Hen. Then who was your father 1 
York. Warbeck. 

Hen. How dare you, Sir !—base, recreant, renegade, 

Traitor ! How dare you come into our realm, 

You, that confess,—that, now the game is lost 
Tell your poor dupes—you ’re but a cozening knave j 
And now make bargain for your life. 

York. Not so. 

My life I give—as freely give it, Sir, 

As Heaven gives light. These, my companions, 

Are still within the safeguard of the shrine. 

Hen. Are they ? Ha ! who’s that woman ? Bring her hither. 
Who are you, Mistress ? 

Duck. This man’s wife. 

Hen. His wife— 

Oh ! Thus I vail to you ; you bear true blood. 

But for this insolent— 

Buck. My husband, Sir. 

Were he indeed what once he thought he was— 

Were he a king, with nations at his feet, 

He’d have no higher name. 

Hen. Psha ! Sunder them. 

Duck. Dear Warbeck ! Oh ! I love the name, since yours,— 




548 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[REV. J. WHITE. 


Better than York, since it is yours no longer ; 

They shall not part us ! He’s no traitor, Sir ! 

Hen. Then he is worse—our prisoner, our sworn foe— 

Vanquished. 

York. Ah ! Catherine, plead for me no more, 

My friends, lift up the banners once again, 

And wend you forth. 

Hen. Not so ! We take your head 

Ransom for theirs.—You’re pardoned, gentlemen ; 

Depart in peace, [to Urswick .] If they get thro’ the forest, 

Your life shall answer. 

The procession exit. Urswick follows , and returns. 

York. Bor me, Sir, here I stand, 

Willing to die: and if ’twill speed your purpose, 

Know that I own that it is just I die ; 

I, that have caused so many nobler deaths, 

So many broken hopes ! Give but the word, 

I’m ready. 

Buck. Husband ! 

York. Look around you, Kate ; 

Eyes are upon us—cold and cruel eyes. 

Let us part nobly. Bear a proud heart, wife ! 

Let me not hear one tremble in your voice, 

It might give triumph. 

Buck, to Hen. Sir, you owned my rank, 

Grant me one favour, let us die together! 

Hen. No. 

Buck. Let not Death come like an envious blight^ 

That nips but half the blossom. Let us die 
Thus, linked together. 

York. No, my Catherine, no ! 

Live to be guardian of your husband’s name \ 

Live to live down the baseless calumnies, 

That power and hatred will conjoin to fling 
On the poor heart that only beat for you, 

For you and honour. 

Buck. I will live for these. 

York. Then let us part. No tear! I thank you, Sir, 

That you preserve this life. Here, with this hand, 

I give you from me, Catherine ! Say farewell, 

Calmly as I do. 

Buck. Farewell Sir ! more loved 

In your defeat, than ’mid the brightest hopes 
That gilt our fortunes in the years gone by ! 

York. Lead to the scaffold ! 

Hen. No. To the Tower—to the Tower 

Lead him—quick—hence ! And you, fair Catherine, 

You shall to Westminster—Nay, answer not. 

Lead off that man ! and take the lady away. [Exeunt York, Duck., c 
Hen. Urswick, come near. How like a York he look’d ! 

Place him beside his cousin in the Tower, 



THE TRAGEDY OP PERKIN WARBECK, 


549 


REV. J. WHITE.] 

Lord Warwick. Tis but one of tbe Hydra heads. 

Let them be close companions. If one lives, 

The other may live as well—both—both. 

Urswick. Lord Warwick, 

Tho’ eighteen years, is but a child in thought, 

Playmate of Digby's pretty daughter, Mabel ; 

And ’tis a pleasant sight to see the twain; 

For he is innocent as she. He has been 
Prison’d so long, he’s lost all sense and manhood. 

Hen. He has enough of both to sit on a throne, 

And give his name to a shilling. Let them meet, 

They will hatch treason soon. And now for London. [ Exeunt . 

Scene II. 

Westminster. Three weeks have elapsed. The Duchess has had witimation, through 
the Earl of Warwick's fool, of Warbeck's intended escape. The message is conveyed in 
the Jester’s Bauble, which he leaves behind him; and while the Duchess is weeping with 
delight at the prospect of joining her husband in his flight, 

Enter Henry. 

Hen. Have you not wept enough yet 1 

Where is your mistress ? Where’s the Queen, fair lady ? 

Duch. Your pardon, Sir. You shall not see me weep 
Again. I think I’ve done with tears. 

Hen. That’s well. 

It only hurts the eyes, and does no good. 

Where is your mistress ? 

Duch. She’s this moment gone. 

Hen. Go to her. [She is going.\ Ho ! come back. Well, look at me : 

I am the King. 

Duch. I know you, Sir. 

Hen. What, woman ! 

Is that the whole ? A word of mine has power 
To doom or pardon. Have you nought to ask 1 
No favour ? You once loved a husband, Madam. 

Duch. I have no favour, Sir, to ask of you. 

Hen. Go then. [Exit Duchess .] 

Three little weeks are past, that’s all, 

And York’s forgotten ; she scarce deems his life 
Worth asking, or his death worth caring for. 

I spoke to try her. He was noble, too, 

And loved her. Pah ! She’ll turn her widow’s weeds 
Into a net, with meshes villainous close, 

To catch another husband. ’Twould be shame 

To balk her angling.—Urswick ! [Sees the bauble. 

What is this ? 

The bauble of a jester ! The poor symbol 
Of a poor trade. Yet what a look it has ! 

How mirthful! And its voice how full of glee ! 

Round it is clustered, laugh, and quip, and song. 

A sovran nod to claim the authority 

That willing liegemen own. What more than this 

The crozier of the pope, the general’s sword, 

The crown itself ? No rival for its keeping, 




550 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[REV. J. WHITE. 


No fear to lose it, no remorse, no pang. 
Lie there,—the sceptre of a merrier king 
Than sits on any throne in Christendom 


Enter UrswicJc. 


How fares he in his prison ? 
Urs. 


Warbeck, sir, 


Bears himself loftily, yet humbly too; 


Subdued, but not disgraced. 


Hen. 


He must be that. 


We must break down his honor, sink him low 
In all men’s eyes. Will he be bribed, wiled, driven, 
To play the spy on Warwick, to betray him ? 

We’ll promise all things, freedom, riches, rank. 

How say you? 

Urs. He’ll not yield. 

Hen. Then he shall die ! 


Enter Digby. 


Eigby (hurriedly) My liege— 

Hen. What now ? Be calm as I am. What ? 

Know you not yet that the quick hurried speech 
Is but for fools—to speak or listen to ? 

What is it ? Take your breath. What is it, sir ! 

Dig. My liege, prince Edward and the duke of York. 

Hen. You mean lord Warwick, sir, and Perkin Warbeck. 

Dig. Pardon, your grace. They hatch a plot between them. 

Hen. Fear not: that egg will addle. What’s the plot ? 

Dig. To fly, my liege. They’ve tampered with the guards j 
Four they have now. 

Hen. ’Twill cost four ropes, sir John, 

To hang them. And when thought they to escape ] 

Dig. To-night. 

Hen. How know you this ? 

Dig. My daughter, sir, 

Has been lord Warwick’s playmate,—loves him, sir, 

As children love their fellows. 

Hen. Well, sir John, 

What is all this ? What has this tale to do 
With Perkin’s plot ? 

Dig. My Mabel, please your grace, 

Is of so loving a nature and so kind ! 

She’s kissed me with more heart-love than of wont 
Hung over me before she went to bed, 

And clung again to me i’ the morning, sir. 

And wept, and had a heaving at her heart 

When she looked on me. And at last, your grace,— 

For she in her fond fealty to her friend 
Was minded to go with them,—she knelt down 
And begged my blessing,—weeping fast, and sobs 
Choking her voice,—for it might chance, she said, 

We should not meet again. 


THE TRAGEDY OF PERKIN WARBECK. 


551 


REV. J. WHITE.] 


Ha ! This is somewhat. 


lien. 

What more 1 

Dig. So in her innocent heart I dipt 
And by such roundabout and winding paths 
As reached her secret, I stole in my way 
And found out all ; nor knows her trustingness 
That ought is known. 

Hen. This is good news, sir John. 

What think you ? What’s to be done ? 

Dig. My daughter, sir, 

Has not a fault. 

Hen. No—no, think not of her, 

She’s pardoned. But the rest ? Advise, sir John. 

Dig. Why sir, if they attempt and are opposed, 

I see not why they should not take their chance, 

And die in the effort. 

Hen. You’re a good lieutenant, 

An excellent lieutenant of the Tower, 

But a bad king. They’ll die by course of law. 

Dig. The law, your grace ? 

Uen, Aye. I have said. The law. 

The sword is always dangerous, for your foe 
May chance to escape it. But the law, sir John, 

There’s no escape from that. 

Dig. I merely said, 

I see not how the law would touch their case. 

Hen. But I have clearer sight. No sword for me, 

No stab, no bowl. He knows his tools but ill 
That works so coarsely. Give me paid judges, sir, 
Removable at pleasure ; servile pleaders ; 

And a bribed, cringing, fawning parliament, 

I ’ll make the law do such things in this realm 
As shall amaze the absolute Algerine : 

Give me but these, and for the matter of power, 

I’d not change thrones with Bajazet the Turk. 

See to it well. Let them escape, sir J ohn, 

But watch them. You’re not learned in the law 


[Exeunt. 


149.—CHARACTER OF HENRY VII. 


Lord Bacon. 


This kino 1 , to speak of him in terms equal to his deserving, was one of the best 
sort of wonders—a wonder for wise men. He had parts both in his virtues and his 
fortune not so fit for a common-place as for observation. Certainly he was religious, 
both in his affection and observance. But as he could see clear, for those times, 
through superstition, so he would be blinded, now and then, by human policy. He 
advanced churchmen ; he was tender in the privilege of sanctuaries, though t ey 
wrought him much mischief. He built and endowed many religious foundations, 
besides his memorable hospital of the Savoy ; and yet was he a great alms-giver m 
secret which showed that his works in public were dedicated rather to Gods glory 
than his own. He professed always to love and seek peace; and it was his usua 









552 *' HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [LORD BACON, 

preface in his treatise, that when Christ came into the world peace was sung, and 
when he went out of the world peace was bequeathed. And this virtue could not 
proceed out of fear or softness, for he was valiant and active, and therefore no doubt 
it was truly Christian and moral. Yet he knew the way to peace was not to seem 
to be desirous to avoid war ; therefore would he make offers and fames of wars till 
he had mended the conditions of peace. It was also much, that one that was so 
great a lover of peace should be so happy in war ; for his arms, either in foreign or 
civil wars, were never infortunate : neither did he know what a disaster meant. 
The war of his coming in, and the rebellions of the Earl of Lincoln and the Lord 
Audley, were ended by victory ; the wars of France and Scotland, by peaces sought 
at his hands ; that of Britain by accident of the duke’s death ; the insurrection of 
the Lord Lovel, and that of Perkin at Exeter and in Kent, by flight of the rebels 
before they came to blows. So that his fortune of arms was still inviolate ; the 
rather sure, for that in the quenching of the commotions of his subjects, he ever 
went in person ; sometimes reserving himself to back and second his lieutenants, 
but ever in action ; and yet that was not merely forwardness, but partly distrust 
of others. 

He did much maintain and countenance his laws, which, nevertheless, was no 
impediment to him to work his will ; for it was so handled that neither prerogative 
nor profit went to diminution. And yet as he would sometimes strain up his laws 
to his prerogative, so he would also let down his prerogative to his parliament; for 
mint, and wars, and martial discipline, things of absolute power, he would never¬ 
theless bring to parliament. Justice was well administered in his time, save where 
the king was party ; save also that the council-table intermeddled too much with 
“ meum ” and “ tuum.” For it was a very court of justice during his time, especi¬ 
ally in the beginning ; but in that part both of justice and policy which is the 
durable part, and cut, as it were, in brass or marble, which is the making of good 
laws, he did excel. And with his justice he was also a merciful prince ; as in whose 
time there were but three of the nobility that suffered—the Earl of Warwick, the 
Lord Chamberlain, and the Lord Audley ; though the first two were, instead of 
numbers, in the dislike and obloquy of the people. But there were never so great 
rebellions expiated with so little blood drawn by the hand of justice, as the two 
rebellions of Blackheath and Exeter. As for the severity used upon those which 
were taken in Kent, it was but a scum of people. His pardons went ever both 
before and after his sword. But then he had withal a strange kind of interchanging 
of large and inexpected pardons with severe executions, which, his wisdom con¬ 
sidered, could not be imputed to any inconstancy or inequality, but either to some 
reason which we do not now know, or to a principle he had set unto himself, that 
he would vary and try both ways in turn. But the less blood he drew, the more 
he took of treasure : and, as some construed it, he was the more sparing in the one 
that he might be the more pressing in the other, for both would have been intole¬ 
rable. Of nature assuredly he coveted to accumulate treasure, and was a little poor 
in admiring riches. The people, into whom there is infused, for the preservation 
of monarchies, a natural desire to discharge their princes, though it be with the 
unjust charge of their counsellors and ministers, did impute this unto Cardinal 
Morton and Sir Reginald Bray, who, as it after appeared, as counsellors of ancient 
authority with him, did so second his humours, as nevertheless they did temper 
them. Whereas Empson and Dudley that followed being persons that had no 
reputation with him, otherwise than by the servile following of his bent, did not 
give way only as the first did, but shape him way to those extremities, for which 
himself was touched with remorse at his death, and which his successor renounced 
and sought to purge. This excess of his had at that time many glosses and inter- 


LORD BACON.] 


CHARACTER OF HENRY VII. 


553 


pretations. Some thought the continual rebellions wherewith he had been vexed 
had made him grow to hate his people ; some thought it was done to pull down 
their stomachs, and to keep them low ; some, for that he would leave his son a golden 
fleece ; some suspected he had some high design upon foreign parts ; but those 
perhaps shall come nearest the truth that fetch not their reasons so far off, but 
rather impute it to nature, age, peace, and a mind fixed upon no other ambition or 
pursuit. AVhereunto I should add, that having every day occasion to take notice 
of the necessities and shifts for money of other great princes abroad, it did the 
better, by comparison, set off to him the felicity of full coffers. As to his expen¬ 
ding of treasure, he never spared charge which his affairs required ; and in his 
buildings was magnificent ; but his rewards were very limited, so that his libera¬ 
lity w T as rather upon his own state and memory than upon the deserts of others. 

He was of an high mind, and loved his own will and his own way, as one that 
revered himself and would reign indeed. Had he been a private man he would 
have been termed proud ; but in a wise prince it was but keeping of distance, which 
indeed he did towards ail, not admitting any near or full approach neither to his 
power or to his secrets, for he was governed by none. His queen, notwith¬ 
standing she had presented him with divers children, and with a crown also, though 
he would not acknowledge it, could do nothing with him. His mother he reverenced 
much, heard little ; for any person agreeable to him for society, such as was 
Hastings to King Edward the Fourth, or Charles Brandon after to King Henry the 
•Eighth 4 he had none ; except we should account for such persons as Fox, and Bray, 
and Empson, because they were so much with him. But it was but as the instru¬ 
ment is much with the workman. He had nothing in him of vain-gloiy, but yet 
kept state and majesty to the height; being sensible that majesty maketh the 

people bow, but vain-glory boweth to them. 

To his confederates abroad he was constant and just, but not open ; but rather 
such was his inquiry, and such his closeness, as they stood in the light towards 
him, and he stood in the dark to them. \ et without strangeness, but with a sem¬ 
blance of mutual communication of affairs. As for little envies or emulations upon 
foreign princes, which are frequent with many kings, he never had many, but vent 
substantially to his own business. Certain it is that though his reputation was 
great at home, yet it was greater abroad. For foreigners that could not see the 
passages of affairs, but made their judgments upon the issues of them, noted that 
he was ever in strife, and ever aloft. It grew also from the airs which the princes 
and states abroad received from their ambassadors and agents here, which were 
attending the court in great number, whom he did not only content with courtesy, 
reward, and privateness, but, upon such conferences as passed with them put them 
in admiration to find his universal insight into the affairs of the world ; which, 
though he did suck chiefly from themselves, yet that which he had gathered from 
them° all seemed admirable to every one, so that they did write ever to their supe¬ 
riors in high terms concerning his wisdom and art of rule ; nay, when they were 
returned, they did commonly maintain intelligence with him : such a dexterity he 

had to impropriate to himself all foreign instruments. 

He was careful and liberal to obtain good intelligence from all par^s abroad ; 
wherein he did not only use his interest in the liegers here, and his pensioner 
which he had both in the court of Rome and other the courts of Christendom, but 
the industry and vigilancy of his own ambassadors in foreign parts : for which 
purpose his instructions were ever extreme, curious, and articulate ; and m them 
more articles touching inquisition than touching negotiation, requiring likewise from his 
ambassadors an answer in particular and distinct articles respectively to his questions. 

As for his secret spials, which he did employ both at home and abroad, by them 





55 i 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[LORD BACON. 

to discover what practices and conspiracies were against him, surely his case 
required it, he had such moles perpetually working and casting to undermine him. 
Neither can it be reprehended ; for if spials be lawful against lawful enemies, much 
more against conspirators and traitors. But indeed to give them credence by oaths 
or curses, that cannot be well maintained : for those are too holy vestments for a 
disguise. Yet surely there was this further good in his employing of these flies 
and familiars ; that as the use of them was cause that many conspiracies were 
revealed, so the fame and suspicion of them kept, no doubt, many conspiracies 
from being attempted. 

Towards his queen he was nothing uxorious, and scarce indulgent ; but com¬ 
panionable and respective, and without jealousy. Towards his children he was full 
of paternal affection, careful of their education, aspiring to their high advancement, 
regular to see that they should not want of any due honour and respect, but not 
greatly willing to cast any popular lustre upon them. 

To his council he did refer much, and sat oft in person, knowing it to be the 
way to assist his power and inform his judgment. In which respect also he was 
fairly patient of liberty, both of advice and of vote, till himself were declared. He 
kept a strait hand on his nobility, and chose rather to advance clergymen and law¬ 
yers, which were more obsequious to him, but had less interest in the people, 
which made for his absoluteness but not for his safety ; insomuch as, I am per¬ 
suaded, it was one of the causes of his troublesome reign ; for that his nobles, 
though they were loyal and obedient, yet did not co-operate with him, but let every 
man go his own way. He was not afraid of an able man, as Lewis the Eleventh 
was ; but contrariwise, he was served by the ablest men that were to be found, 
without which his affairs could not have prospered as they did. For war, Bedford, 
Oxford, Surrey, D’Aubigny, Brooke, Poynings ; for other affairs, Morton, Fox, Bray, 
the Prior of Lanthony, Warham, Urswick, Hussey, Frowick, and others. Neither 
did he care how cunning they were that he did employ, for he thought himself to 
have the master-reach. And as he chose well, so he held them up well ; for it is 
a strange thing, that though he were a dark prince, and infinitely suspicious, and 
his times full of secret conspiracies and troubles, yet in twenty-four years’ reign 
he never put down or discomposed counsellor, or near servant, save only Stanley, 
the lord chamberlain. As for the disposition of his subjects in general towards 
him, it stood thus with him ; that of the three affections which naturally tie the 
hearts of the subjects to their sovereigns, love, fear, and reverence, he had the last 
in height, the second in good measure, and so little of the first as he was beholden 
to the other two. 

He was a prince sad, serious, and full of thoughts and secret observations, and 
full of notes and memorials of his own hand, especially touching persons. As, 
whom to employ, whom to reward, whom to inquire of, whom to beware of, what 
were the dependencies, what were the factions, and the like ; keeping, as it were, 
a journal of his thoughts. There is to this day a merry tale, that his monkey, set 
on, as it was thought, by one of his chamber, tore his principal note-book all to 
pieces, when by chance it lay forth ; whereat the court, which liked not those 
pensive accounts, was almost tickled with sport. 

He was indeed full of apprehensions and suspicions, but as he did easily take 
them, so he did easily check them and master them, whereby they were not dan¬ 
gerous, but troubled himself more than others. It is true, his thoughts were so 
many, as they could not well always stand together; but that which did good one 
way, did hurt another : neither did he at some times weigh them aright in their 
proportions. Certainly, that rumour which did him so much mischief, that the 
Duke of York should be saved and alive, was, at the first, of his own nourishing. 


CHARACTER OF HENRY VII. 


LORD BACON.] 


555 


because lie would have more reason not to reign in right of his wife. He was 
affable and both well and fair spoken, and would use strange sweetness and blan¬ 
dishments of words where he desired to effect or persuade anything that he took 
to heart. He was rather studious than learned, reading most books that were of 
any worth in the French tongue ; yet he understood the Latin, as appeareth in 
that Cardinal Hadrian and others, who could very well have written French, did 
use to write to him in Latin. 

For his pleasures, there is no news of them ; and yet by his instructions to 
Marsin and Stile, touching the queen of Naples, it seemeth he could interrogate 
well touching beauty. He did by pleasures as great princes do by banquets, come 
and look a little upon them, and turn away. For never prince was more wholly 
given to his affairs, nor in them more of himself; insomuch as in triumphs of 
jousts, and tourneys, and balls, and masks, which they then called disguises, he 
was rather a princely and gentle spectator, than seemed much to be delighted. 

No doubt in him, as in all men, and most of all in kings, his fortune wrought 
upon his nature, and his nature upon his fortune. He attained to the crown not 
only from a private fortune, which might endow him with moderation, but also 
from the fortune of an exiled man, which had quickened in him all seeds of obser¬ 
vation and industry. And his times, being rather prosperous than calm, had raised 
his confidence by success, but almost marred his nature by troubles. His wisdom, 
by often evading from perils, was turned rather into a dexterity to deliver himself 
from dangers, when they pressed him, than into a providence to prevent and 
remove them afar off. And even in nature, the sight of his mind was like some 
sights of eyes—rather strong at hand than to carry afar off; for his wit increased 
upon the occasion, and so much the more if the occasion were sharpened by danger. 
Again, whether it were the shortness of his foresight, or the strength of his will, 
or the dazzling of his suspicions, or what it was—certain it is, that the perpetual 
troubles of his fortunes, there being no more matter out of which they grew, could 
not have been without some great defects and main errors in his nature, customs, 
and proceedings, which he had enough to do to save and help with a thousand little 
industries and watches. But those do best appear in the story itself. Yet take 
him with all his defects, if a man should compare him with the kings his concur¬ 
rents in France and Spain, he shall find him more politic than Lewis the Twelfth 
of France, and more entire and sincere than Ferdinando of Spain : but if you shall 
change Lewis the Twelfth for Lewis the Eleventh, who lived a little before, then 
the consort is more perfect ; for that Lewis the Eleventh, Ferdinando, and Henry, 
may be esteemed for the “ tres magi ” of kings of those ages. To conclude, if this 
king did no greater matters, it was long of himself; for what he minded, he com¬ 
passed. 

He was a comely personage, a little above just stature, well and straight-limbed, 
but slender. His countenance was reverend, and a little like a churchman ; and 
as it was not strange or dark, so neither was it winning or pleasing, but as the face 
of one well-disposed ; but it was to the disadvantage of the painter, for it was best 
when he spake. 

His worth may bear a tale or two, that may put upon him somewhat that may 
seem divine. When the Lady Margaret, his mother, had divers great suitors tor 
marriage, she dreamed one night that one in the likeness of a bishop, in pontifical 
habit, did tender her Edmund, Earl of Richmond, the king’s father, for her hus¬ 
band ; neither had she ever any child but the king, though she had three husbands. 
One day when ELing Henry the Sixth, whose innocency gave him holiness, was 
washing his hands at a great feast, and cast his eye upon King Henry, then a 
young youth ; he said, “ This is the lad that shall possess quietly that that we 






556 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [LORD BACON. 

now strive for.” But that that was truly divine in him, was that he had the for. 
tune of a true Christian as well as of a great king, in living exercised and dying 
repentant ; so as he had an happy warfare in both conflicts, both of sin and the 

cross. 

He was born at Pembroke Castle, and lietb buried at Westminster in one of 
the stateliest and daintiest monuments of Europe, both for the chapel and for the 
sepulchre. So that he dwelleth more richly dead, in the monument of his tomb, 
than he did alive in Richmond, or any of his palaces. I could wish he did the 
like in this monument of his fame. 


150.—THE TRIAL OF BUCKINGHAM. 

Scene. A Street. 

Enter Two Gentlemen, meeting. 

1 Gent. Whither away so fast ? 

2 Gent. 0,—God save you ! 

Even to the hall, to hear what shall become 
Of the great duke of Buckingham 

1 Gent. I ’ll save you 

That labour, sir. All’s now done, but the ceremony 
Of bringing back the prisoner. 

2 Gent. Were you there ? 

1 Gent. Yes, indeed, was I. 

2 Gent. Pray speak what has happen’d. 

1 Gent. You may guess quickly what. 

2 Gent. Is he found guilty 1 

1 Gent. Yes, truly is he, and condemn’d upon it. 

2 Gent. I am sorry for’t. 

1 Gent. So are a number more. 

2 Gent. But, pray, how pass’d it ? 

1 Gent. I ’ll tell you in a little. The great duke 
Came to the bar ; where to his accusations 

He pleaded still, not guilty, and alleg’d 
Many sharp reasons to defeat the law. 

The king’s attorney, on the contrary, 

Urg’d on the examinations, proofs, confessions 
Of divers witnesses ; which the duke desir’d 
To have brought, vivd voce , to his face : 

At which appear’d against him, his surveyor ; 

Sir Gilbert Peck, his chancellor; and John Car, 
Confessor to him; with that devil-monk, 

Hopkins, that made this mischief. 

2 Gent. That was he 

That fed him with his prophecies ? 

1 Gent. The same. 

All these accus’d him strongly ; which he fain 
Would have flung from him, but, indeed, he could not: 
And so his peers, upon this evidence, 

Have found him guilty of high treason. Much 


Shakspere. 




THE TRIAL OP BUCKINGHAM. 


557 


EHAKSPERE.] 

He spoke, and learnedly, for life ; but all 
Was either pitied in him, or forgotten. 

2 Gent. After all this, how did he bear himself ? 

1 Gent. When he was brought again to the bar, to hear 
His knell rung out, his judgment, he was stirr’d 

With such an agony, he sweat extremely, 

And something spoke in choler, ill, and hasty: 

But he fell to himself again, and sweetly 
In all the rest show’d a most noble patience. 

2 Gent. I do not think he fears death. 

1 Gent. Sure, he does not, 

He never was so womanish; the cause 

He may a little grieve at. 

2 Gent. Certainly 

The cardinal is the end of this. 

1 Gent. ’T is likely, 

By all conjectures : First, Kildare’s attainder, 

Then deputy of Ireland ; who remov’d, 

Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too, 

Lest he should help his father. 

2 Gent That trick of state 

Was a deep envious one. 

1 Gent. At his return, 

No doubt he will requite it. This is noted, 

And generally, whoever the king favours, 

The cardinal instantly will find employment, 

And far enough from court too. 

2 Gent. All the commons 

Hate him perniciously, and, o’ my conscience, 

Wish him ten fathom deep: this duke as much 

They love and dote on ; call him bounteous Buckingham, 

The mirror of all courtesy. 

Enter Buckingham, from his arraignment; Tipstaves before him ; the axe with the 
edge towards him; halberds on each side; accompanied with Sir Thomas Lovell , Sir 
Nicholas Vaux. Sir William Sands, and common people. 

1 Gent. Stay there, sir, 

And see the noble ruin’d man you speak of. 

2 Gent. Let’s stand close, and behold him. 

Buck. All good people, 

You that thus far have come to pity me, 

Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me. 

I have this day receiv’d a traitor’s judgment, 

And by that name must die : Yet, heaven bear witness, 

And if I have a conscience let it sink me, 

Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful! 

The law I bear no malice for my death, 

It has done, upon the premises, but justice : 

But those that sought it I could wish more Christians : 

Be wdiat they will, I heartily forgive them : 

Yet let them look they glory not in mischief, 

Nor build their evils on the graves of great men 



558 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAKSFERE. 


For then my guiltless blood must cry against them. 

For further life in this world I ne’er hope, 

Nor will I sue, although the king have mercies 
More than I dare make faults. You few that lov’d mo, 
And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, 

His noble friends, and fellows, whom to leave 
Is only bitter to him, only dying, 

Go with me, like good angels, to my end ; 

And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me, 

Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice, 

And lift my soul to heaven.—Lead on, o’God’s name. 

Lov. I do beseech your grace, for charity, 

If ever any malice in your heart 

Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly. 

Buck. Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you 
As I would be forgiven : I forgive all: 

There cannot be those numberless offences 
’Gainst me that I cannot take peace with : 

No black envy shall make my grave. 

Commend me to his grace ; 

And if he speak of Buckingham, pray tell him, 

You met him half in heaven: my vows and prayers 
Yet are the king’s ; and, till my soul forsake, 

Shall cry for blessings on him: May he live 
Longer than I have time to tell his years ! 

Ever belov’d, and loving, may his rule be! 

And, when old time shall lead him to his end, 

Goodness and he fill up one monument ! 

Lov. To the water side I must conduct your grace ; 
Then give my charge up to sir Nicholas Vaux, 

Who undertakes you to your end. 

Vaux. Prepare there, 

The duke is coming ; see the barge be ready ; 

And fit it with such furniture as suits 
The greatness of his person. 

Buck. Nay, sir Nicholas, 

Let it alone ; my state now will but mock me. 

When I came hither I was lord high constable, 

And duke of Buckingham ; now, poor Edward Bohun : 
Yet I am richer than my base accusers, 

That never knew what truth meant : I now seal it; 

And with that blood will make them one day groan for ’t. 

My noble father, Henry of Buckingham 

Who first rais’d head against usurping Richard, 

Flying for succour to his servant Banister, 

Being distress’d, was by that wretch betray’d, 

And without trial fell ; God’s peace be with him! 

Henry the seventh succeeding, truly pitying 
My father’s loss, like a most royal prince, 

Restor’d me to my honours, and, out of ruins, 

Made my name once more noble. Now his son, 

Henry the eighth, life, honour, name, and all 




559 


8EAKSPERE.] THE TRIAL OF BUCKINGHAM. 

That made me happy, at one stroke has taken 
Foi ever from the world. I had my trial, 

And, must needs say, a noble one ; which makes me 
A little happier than my wretched father ; 

\ et thus far we are one in fortunes,—Both 
Fell by our servants, by those men we lov’d most ; 

A most unnatural and faithless service ! 

Heaven has an end in all: Yet, you that hear me, 

This from a dying man receive as certain : 

Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels, 

Be sure you be not loose j for those you make friends, 

And gi\e your hearts too, when they once perceive 
The least rub in your fortunes, fall away 
Like water from ye, never found again 
But where they mean to sink ye. All good people, 

Pray for me ! I must now forsake ye ; the last hour 
Of my long weary life is come upon me. 

Farewell: 

And when you would say something that is sad, 

Speak how I fell.—I have done j and God forgive me ! 

{Exeunt Buckingham and Train. 


151.—THE TRIAL OF QUEEN KATHARINE. 
{From, the 1 Life of Wolsey.’) 


Cavendish. 


11 Ye shall understand, as I said before, that there was a court erected m the Black- 
friars in London, where these two cardinals sat for judges. Now will I set you out 
the manner and order of the court there. First, there was a court placed with 
tables, benches, and bars, like a consistory, a place judicial (for the judges to sit on). 
There was also a cloth of estate, under the which sat the king ; and the queen sat 
some distance beneath the king : under the judges’ feet sat the officers of the court. 
The chief scribe there was Hr. Stephens (w?io was after bishop of Winchester) ; the 
apparitor was one Cooke, most commonly called Cooke of Winchester. Then sat 
there within the said court, directly before the king and the judges, the archbishop 
of Canterbury, Doctor Warham, and all the other bishops. Then at both the ends, 
with a bar made for them, the councillors on both sides. The doctors for the king 
were Doctor Sampson, that was after bishop of Chichester, and Doctor Bell, who 
after was bishop of Worcester, with divers other. The proctors on the king’s part 
were Doctor Peter, who was after made the king’s chief secretary, and Doctor Tre- 
gonell, and divers other. 

Now on the other side stood the counsel for the queen,—Doctor Fisher, bishop 
of Rochester, and Doctor Standish, some time a grey friar, and then bishop of St. 
Asaph in Wales ; two notable clerks in divinity, and in especial the bishop of 
Rochester a very godly man and a devout person, who after suffered death at Tower 
Hill; the which was greatly lamented through all the foreign universities of Chris¬ 
tendom. There was also another ancient doctor, called, as I remember, Doctor 
Ridley, a very small person in stature, but surely a great and excellent clerk in 
divinity. 

“ The court being thus furnished and ordered, the judges commanded the crier 
to proclaim silence : then was the judges’ commission, which they had of the pope, 






56C 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[CAVENDISH. 


published and read openly before all the audience there assembled ; that done, the 
crier called the king, by the name of £ King Henry of England, come into the 
court,’ &c. With that the king answered and said, £ Here, my lords.’ Then he 
called also the queen, by the name of £ Katharine queen of England, come into the 
court,’ &c.; who made no answer to the same, but rose up incontinent out of her 
chair, where as she sat ; and because she could not come directly to the king for 
the distance which severed them, she took pain to go about unto the king, kneel¬ 
ing down at his feet in the sight of all the court and assembly, to whom she said 
in effect, in broken English, as followeth .— 

“ £ Sir,’ qnoth she, £ I beseech you for all the loves that hath been between us, 
and for the love of God, let me have justice and right; take of me some pity and 
compassion, for I am a poor woman and a stranger born out of your dominion ; I 
have here no assured friend, and much less indifferent counsel; I flee to you as to 
the head of justice within this realm. Alas ! sir, wherein have I offended you, or 
what occasion of disploasure ? Have I designed against your will and pleasure ; 
intending, as I perceive, to put me from you 1 I tSke God and all the world to 
witness that I have been to you a true, humble, and obedient wife, ever conform¬ 
able to your will and pleasure, that never said or did anything to the contrary 
thereof, being always well pleased and contented with all things wherein you had 
any delight or dalliance, whether it were in little or much ; I never grudged in word 
or countenance, or showed a visage or spark of discontentation. I loved all those 
whom ye loved only for your sake, whether I had cause or no, and whether they 
were my friends or my enemies. This twenty years I have been your true wife, or 
more, and by me ye have had divers children, although it hath pleased God to call 
them out of this world, which hath been no default in me. 

“ c And when ye had me at the first, I take God to be my judge, I was a true 
maid without touch of man ; and whether it be true or no, I put it to your con¬ 
science. If there be any just cause by the law that ye can allege against me, either 
of dishonesty or any other impediment to banish and put me from you, I am well 
content to depart to my great shame aad dishonour ; and if there be none, then 
here I most lowly beseech you let me remain in my former estate, and receive jus¬ 
tice at your hands. The king your father was in the time of his reign of such 
estimation through the world for his excellent wisdom, that he was accounted and 
called of all men the second Solomon ; and my father Ferdinand King of Spain, 
who was esteemed to be one of the wittiest princes that reigned in Spain many 
years before were both wise and excellent kings in wisdom and princely behaviour. 
It is not therefore to be doubted but that they elected and gathered as wise coun¬ 
cillors about them as to their high discretions was thought meet. Also, as me 
seemeth, there was in those days as wise, as well-learned men, and men of as good 
judgment, as be at this present in both realms, who thought then the marriage 
between you and me good and lawful ; therefore it is a wonder to hear what new 
inventions are now invented against me, that never intended but honesty, and 
cause me to stand to the order and judgment of this new court, wherein ye may do 
me much wrong, if ye intend any cruelty ; for ye may condemn me for lack of 
sufficient answer, having no indifferent counsel, but such as be assigned me, with 
whose wisdom and learning I am not acquainted. Ye must consider that they 
cannot be indifferent counsellors for my part which be your subjects, and taken 
out of your own council before, wherein they be made privy, and dare not, for your 
displeasure, disobey your will and intent, being once made privy thereto. There¬ 
fore, I most humbly require you, in the way of charity, and for the love of God, 
who is the best judge, to spare me the extremity of this new court, until I may be 
advertised what way and order my friends in Spain will advise me to take : and if 


CAVENDISH.] 


THE TRIAL OF QUEEN KATHARINE. 


561 


ye will not extend to me so much indifferent favour, your pleasure then he fulfilled 

and to God I commit my cause ! ’ , , 

« And with that she rose up, making a low curtsy to the king, and so departed 

from thence. Many supposed that she would have resorted again to her foimer 
place ; but she took her way straight out of the house, leaning, as she was wont 
always to do, upon the arm of her general receiver, called Master Griffith. And 
the kino- being advertised of her departure, commanded the crier to call her again, 
who called her by the name of ‘ Katherine queen of England, come into the court,^ 

&c. With that quoth Master Griffith, ‘ Madam , ye be called again. On, on, 
quoth she, 'it maketli no matter, for it is no indifferent court for me, therefore 
will not tarry. Go on your ways.’ And thus she departed out of that court, 
without any farther answer at that time, or at any other, nor would never appear 

at any other court after. , . ^ 

“ The king, perceiving that she was departed in such sort, calling to his grace s 

memory all her lament words that she had pronounced before him and all the 
audience said thus in effect :—‘ Forasmuch,’ quoth he, ‘ as the queen is gone, _ 
will in her absence, declare unto you all my lords here present assembled, she aat 
been to me as true, as obedient, and as conformable a wife as I could in my fantasy 
wish or desire She hath all the virtuous qualities that ought to be m a woman 
7her dSorh any other of baser estate. Surely she is also a noblewoman 
born /nothing were in her but only her conditions, will well declare the samo 
tVrth that quoth my lord cardinal,- 1 Sir, I most humbly beseech your highness to 
declare me before all this audience, whether I have been the chief inventor or first 
tier oT this m att er unto your majesty : for I am greatly suspected of all men 
herein ’ 1 My lord cardinal,’ quoth the ting, ‘ I can well excuse you herein. 4 < .' » 

ouoth he ‘ ye have been rather against me in attempting or setting forth thereof 
And to put J you all out of doubt, I will declare unto you the special cause that 
moved me hereunto ; it was a certain scrupulosity that pricked my conscience upo 
Zrs /ords S were spoken at a certain time by the Bishop of Bayonne, tte 
French king’s ambassador, who had been here long upon the debating 
duslon of a marriage to be concluded between the princess, our daughter Mary 

X And D ut e nthe KSSTthZf, *e desired respite to ad¬ 

vertise the 1 king his master thereof, whether our daughter Mary should be 

vexed, and troubled so my mind, and so ! ^tell much the rather 

of God’s indignation ; which, as seemed ^ appeared iigH ^ ^ ag l hav0 

for that he hath not sent me any issue ma , born . g0 that j doubt the 

received of the queen dl / Xha/ 6 Vus teingtroubled in waves of a scrupulous 
punishment of God m that beha f. % v it drave me at last to 

conscience, and partly in despair of any issue male by^er it^d 

consider the estate of this realm, and the danger >t °° d °‘ in relief 0 f 

to succeed me in this imperial dignity. °”® d t p e ° qu i’et estate of this noble 

the weighty burden of scrupulous conscience, and t 1 her wife in case 

realm, to attempt the law therein, and whether I m g which l intend 

that my first copulation with this gen ewoman w ® mislike of the queen’s 

cot for any carnal concupiscence, nor for any dls P' a . ; durillg my life, if 

person or age, with whom I could be as well content " which point 

our marriage may stand with God’s laws, blZ^1ea^ed wisdom' and 

eonsisteth aU this doubt that we go now about to try by the ^ q 





562 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORT. [CAVENDISH 

iudgment of you our prelates and pastors of this realm here assembled for 
that purpose ; to whose conscience and judgment I have committed the 
charge, according to the which, God willing, we will be right well contented 
to submit ourself, to obey the same for our part. Wherein after I once per¬ 
ceived my conscience wounded With the doubtful case herein, I moved first 
this matter in confession to you, my Lord of Lincoln, my ghostly father. And 
forasmuch as then yourself were in some doubt to give me counsel, moved me 
to ask further counsel of all you, my lords ; wherein I moved you first, my lord 
of Canterbury, axing your licence (forasmuch as you were our metropolitan) to 
put this matter in question ; and so I did of all you, my lords, to the which ye 
have all granted by writing under all your seals, the which I have here to be 
showed.’ ‘ That is truth, if it please your highness,” quoth the bishop of Canter¬ 
bury ; ‘ I doubt not but all my brethren here present will affirm the same.’ ‘ No, 
sir, not I,’ quoth the bishop of Rochester, ‘ye have not my consent thereto.’ ‘No! 
ha’ the ! ’ quoth the king ; ‘ look here upon this : is not this your hand and seal ? ’ 
and showed him the instrument with seals. ‘No, forsooth, sire,’ quoth the bishop 
of Rochester, ‘ it is not my hand nor seal ! ’ To that quoth the king to my Lord 
of Canterbury, ‘Sir, how say ye ? is it not his hand and seal?’ Yes, sir,’ quoth 
my Lord of Canterbury. ‘ That is not so,’ quoth the bishop of Rochester, ‘ for 
indeed you were in hand with me to have both my hand and seal, as other of my 
lords had already done ; but then I said to you that I would never consent to no 
such act, for it were much against my conscience ; nor my hand and seal should 
never be seen at any such instrument, God willing ; with much more matter 
touching the same communication between us.’ ‘You say truth,’ quoth the bishop 
of Canterbury ; ‘ such words ye said unto me; but at the last ye were fully per¬ 
suaded that I should for you subscribe your name, and put to a seal myself, and 
ye would allow the same.’ ‘All which words and matter,’ quoth the bishop of 
Rochester, ‘under your correction, my lord, and supportation of this noble audi¬ 
ence, there is nothing more untrue.’ ‘ Well, well,’ quoth the king, ‘it shall make 
no matter; we will not stand with you in argument herein, for you are but one 
man.’ And with that the court was adjourned until the next day of this session.” 


152.—THE FALL OF WOLSEY. 
Scene.— The Palace. 


Shakspere. 


The King goes out, frowning upon Cardinal Wolsey : the Nobles throng after him , 

smiling , and whispering. 

Wol. What should this mean ? 

What sudden anger’s this ? how have I reap’d it ? 

He parted frowning from me, as if ruin 
Leap’d from his eyes : So looks the chafed lion 
Upon the daring huntsman that has gall’d him ; 

Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper : 

I fear, the story of his anger.—’Tis so 
This paper has undone me : ’T is the account 
Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together 
For mine own ends ; indeed, to gain the popedom. 

And fee my friends in Rome. 0 negligence, 

Fit for a fool to fall by ! What cross devil 










THE FALL OF WOLSEY. 


563 


•] 


Made me put this main secret in the packet 
I sent the king ? Is there no way to cure this 1 
No new device to beat this from his brains ? 

I know’t will stir him strongly ; Yet I know 

A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune 

Will bring me off again. What’s this—‘ To the Pope ? ’ 

The letter, as I live, with all the business 

I writ to his holiness. Nay then, farewell! 

I have touch’d the highest point of all my greatness: 
And, from that full meridian of my glory, 

I haste now to my setting. I shall fall 
Like a bright exhalation in the evening, 

And no man see me more. 


enter the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Earl of Surrey, and the lord 

Chamberlain. 


Nor. Hear the king’s pleasure, cardinal: who commands you 
To render up the great seal presently 
Into our hands ; and to confine yourself 
To Asher-house, my lord of Winchester’s, 

Till you hear further from his highness. 

Wol. Stay, 

Where ’s your commission, lords 'l words cannot carry 

Authority so weighty. 

Who dare cross them, 

Bearing the king’s will from his mouth expressly ? 

Wol. Till I find more than will, or words, to do it, 

(I mean, your malice,) know, officious lords, 

I dare, and must deny it. Now I feel 
Of what coarse metal ye are moulded,—envy. 


How eagerly ye follow my disgraces, 

As if it fed ye % and how sleek and wanton 
Ye appear in everything may bring my ruin ! 

Hollow your envious courses, men of malice ; 

You have Christian warrant for them, and, no doubt, 

In time will find their fit rewards. That seal 
You ask with such a violence, the king, 

(Mine, and your master,) with his own hand gave me : 
Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours, 

During my life, and, to confirm his goodness, 

Tied it by letters patent : Now, who’ll take it 1 

Sur. The king, that gave it. 

Wol It must be himself then. 

Sur. Thou art a proud traitor, priest. 

Wol Proud lord, thou best: 

Within these forty hours Surrey durst better 

Have burnt that tongue than said so. 

gw. Thy ambition, 

Thou scarlet sin, robb’d this bewailing land 
Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law : 

The heads of all thy brother cardinals, 

(With thee, and all thy best parts bound together,} 




564 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 

Weigh’d not a hair of his. Plague of your policy ! 

You sent me deputy for Ireland : 

Par from his succour, from the king, from all 
That might have mercy on the fault thou gav’st him ; 
Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity, 

Absolv’d him with an axe. 

Wol. This, and all else 

This talking lord can lay upon my credit, 

I answer is most false. The duke by law 
Found his deserts : how innocent I was 
From any private malice in his end, 

His noble jury and foul cause can witness. 

If I lov’d many words, lord, I should tell you, 

You have as little honesty as honour, 

That in the way of loyalty and truth 
Toward the king, my ever royal master, 

Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be, 

And all that love his follies. 

/S ur. By my soul, 

Your long coat, priest, protects you; thou should’st feel 
My sword i’ the life-blood of thee else.—My lords, 

Can ye endure to hear this arrogance ? 

And from this fellow ? If we live thus tamely 
To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet, 

Farewell nobility ; let his grace go forward, 

And dare us with his cap, like larks. 

Wol. All goodness 

Is poison to thy stomach. 

&'ur. Yes, that goodness 

Of gleaning all the land’s wealth into one, 

Into your own hands, cardinal, by extortion 
The goodness of your intercepted packets, 

You writ to the pope, against the king : your goodness, 
Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious. 

My lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble, 

As you respect the common good, the state 
Of our despis’d nobility, our issues, 

Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen,— 

Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles 
Collected from his life :—I’ll startle you 
Worse than the sacring bell, when the brown wench 
Lay kissing in your arms, lord cardinal. 

Wol. How much, methinks, I could despise this man, 
But that I am bound in charity against it ! 

Nor. Those articles, my lord, are in the king’s hand 
But, thus much, they are foul ones. 

Wol. So much fairer, 

And spotless, shall mine innocence arise, 

When the king knows my truth. 

Sur. This cannot save you: 

I thank my memory, I yet remember 
Some of these articles ; and out they shall. 


[SHAKSPERE. 



SRAKSPERE.] 


THE FALL OF WOLSEY. 


565 


Now, if you can blush, and cry guilty, cardinal, 

You ’ll show a little honesty 

Wol. Speak on, sir ; 

I dare your worst objections : if I blush, 

It is, to see a nobleman want manners. 

Suf. I’d rather want those than my head. Have at you. 

First, that, without the king’s assent or knowledge, 

You wrought to be a legate ; by which power 
You maim’d the jurisdiction of all bishops. 

Nor. Then, that, in all you writ to Rome, or elsj 
To foreign princes, Ego et Rex mens 
Was still inscrib’d ; in which you brought the king 
To be your servant. 

Suf. Then, that, without the knowledge 

Either of king or council, when you went 
Ambassador to the emperor, you made bold 
To carry into Flanders the great seal. 

Sur. Item, you sent a large commission 
To Gregory de Cassalis, to conclude, 

Without the king’s will, or the state’s allowance, 

A league between his highness and Ferrara. 

Suf. That, out of mere ambition, you have caused 
Your holy hat to be stamp’d on the king’s coin. 

Sur. Then, that you have sent innumerable substance, 

(By what means got, I leave to your own conscience,) 

To furnish Rome, and to prepare the ways 
You have for dignities ; to the mere undoing 
Of all the kingdom. Many more there are ; 

• Which, since they are of you, and odious, 

I will not taint my mouth with. 

Cham. 0 m 7 lord > 

Press not a falling man too far ; ’t is virtue : 

His faults lie open to the laws; let them, 

Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him 

So little of his great self. 

Sur. I forgive him. 

Suf. Lord cardinal, the king’s further pleasure is,— 

Because all those things, you have done of late 
By your power legatine within this kingdom, 

Fall into the compass of a prcemunire,— 

That therefore such a writ be sued against you ; 

To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,. 

Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be 

Out of the king’s protection :—This is my charge. 

Nor And so we ’ll leave you to your meditations 
How to live better. For your stubborn answer, 

About the giving back the great seal to us. 

The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you. 

So fare you well, my little good lord car ma . bu( Woh ^ 

Wol So farewell to the little good you bear me. 

Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness. 




566 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


jSHAKSPERB 


This is the state of man : To-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hopes, to-morrow blossoms, 

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; 

And,—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a ripening,—nips his root, 

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur’d, 

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 

This many summers in a sea of glory; 

But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 
At length broke under me ; and now has left me, 

Weary, and old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. 

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ; 

I feel my heart new open’d : 0, how wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours ! 

There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, 

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, 

More pangs and fears than wars or women have ; 

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 

Never to hope again.— 

Enter Cromivell, amazedly. 

Why, how now, Cromwell ? 
Crom. I have no power to speak, sir. 

Wol. What, amaz’d 

At my misfortunes 1 can thy spirit wonder 
A great man should decline ? Nay, an you weep, 

I am fallen indeed. 

Crom . How does your grac ? 

Wol. Why, well, 

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell: 

I know myself now ; and I feel within 
A peace above all earthly dignities, 

A still aud quiet conscience. The king has curd me, 

I humbly thank his grace ; and from these shoulders, 

These ruin’d pillars, out of pity, taken 
A load would sink a navy, too much honour: 

O, ’tis a burden, Cromwell, ’tis a burden, 

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven. 

Croon. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it, 
Wol. I hope I have: I am able now, methinks, 

(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,) 

To endure more miseries, and greater far, 

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. 

What news abroad 1 

Croon. The heaviest, and the worst, 

Is your displeasure with the king. 

Wol. God bless him ! 

Croon. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen 
Lord chancellor in your place. 

Wol. 


That’s somewhat sudden: 




bhakspere.] 


THE FALL OF WOLSEY. 


But lie’s a learned man. May lie continue 
Long in his highness’ favour, and do justice 
Bor truth’s sake, and his conscience ; that his bones, 

When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings, 

May have a tomb of orphans’ tears wept on em 1 
What more ? 

Crom. That Cranmer is return’d with welcome, 

Install’d lord archbishop of Canterbury. 

Wol. That’s news indeed. 

Crom. Last, that the lady Anne, 

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married, 

This day was view’d in open, as his queen, 

Going to chapel; and the voice is now 
Only about her coronation. 

Wol. There was the weight that pull’d me down. 

The king has gone beyond me ; all my glories 
In that one woman I have lost for ever : 

No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours, 

Or gild again the noble troops that waited 
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell, 

I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now 
To be thy lord and master : Seek the king; 

That sun, I pray, may never set ! I have told him 
What, and how true thou art: he will advance thee ; 
Some little memory of me will stir him, 

(I know his noble nature,) not to let 

Thy hopeful service perish too : Good Cromwell, 

Neglect him not ; make use now, and provide 
Bor thine own future safety. 

Crom. m y lord > 

Must I then leave you ? must I needs forego 

So good, so noble, and so true a master ?. 

Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, 

With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. • 

The king shall have my service ; but my prayers 
Bor ever, and for ever, shall be yours. 

Tfo£. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
In all my miseries ; but thou hast fore d me 
Out of thy honest truth to play the woman. 

Let’s dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwe ; 
_A. nc l —when I am forgotten, as I shall be ; 

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention 
Of me more must be heard of,—say, I taught thee ? 

Say Wolsey,—that once trod the ways of glory, 

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour-- 
Bound thee a way, out of his wrack, to rise in; 

A sure and safe one, though thy master miss d it, 

Mark but my fall, and that that ruin d me. 

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ; 

By that sin fell the angels; how can man then, 

The image of his Maker, hope to win by t . 

Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee : 


0 Cromwell, 


567 




568 


HALF-HOURS OE ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SHAHSPERB 


Corruption wins not more than honesty. 

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: 

Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s, 

Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, 0 Cromwell, 

Thou fall’st a blessed martyr. Serve the king ; 

And,—Prithee, lead me in : 

There take an inventory of all I have, 

To the last penny ; ’tis the king’s : my robe, 

And my integrity to heaven, is all 
I dare now call mine own. 0 Cromwell, Cromwell, 

Had I but serv’d my God with half the zeal 
I serv’d my king, he would not in mine age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies. 

Crom. Good sir, have patience. 

Wol. So I have. Farewell 

The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell. {Exeunt. 


153.—THE REIGN OF HENRY VIII. 

[It may be convenient, before we proceed further in selection of scenes in this period, to 
give a general summary of the events of the reign, from ‘ The Penny Cyclopaedia.’] 

Henry VIII., the second son of Henry VII., by his queen Elizabeth of York, was 
bom at Greenwich, 28th June, 1491. On the 1st of November following he was 
created duke of York, and in 1494 his father conferred upon him the honorary 
title of lord-lieutenant of Ireland, Sir Edward Poynings being appointed his deputy 
The government of Sir Edward is famous for the enactment of the statute, or rather 
series of statutes, declaring the dependence of the Irish parliament upon that Oi 
England, which passes under his name. Henry’s nominal lord-lieutenancy appears 
to have lasted only till the nest year, when he exchanged that dignity for the office 
of president of the Northern Marches. The king’s design in these appointments 
seems to have been to oppose his son’s name to the pretensions of Perkin Warbeck 
and the efforts of the supporters of that adventurer, first in Ireland and afterwards 
from the side of Scotland. Although thus early distinguished by these and other 
civil titles and appointments, it is stated by Paolo Sarpi, in his ‘ History of the 
Council of Trent,’ that Henry was from the first destined to the archbishopric of 
Canterbury ; that prudent king his father,’ observes Lord Herbert (in the ‘His¬ 
tory of ms Life and Reign’) ‘ choosing this as the most cheap and glorious way for 
disposing of a younger son.’ He received accordingly a learned education ; ‘ so 
that, continues this writer, ‘ besides his being an able Latinist, philosopher, and 
divine, he was (which one might wonder at in a king) a curious musician, a’s two 
t e masses composed by him, and often sung in his chapel, did abundantly wit¬ 
ness. As the death of his elder brother Arthur, however, 2nd April 1502 made 
1 m heir to the crown before he had completed his eleventh year, it is’evident that 

either G of C d- edl f atl0n could not ^ ave Proceeded very far, and that what he knew 
either of divinity or of the learned tongues must have been for the most part ac- 

qmred wRhout any view to the church. There is a contradiction in the statements 
as to the time when he was created prince of Wales. 

HpIrvWv f te ^ A ^ thur ’ s deat ,[ the singular project was started of marrying 
Henry to his brothers widow. The proposition appears to have originally com! 

fiom Ferdinand and Isabella, the parents of the princess, who were anxious 7 to re- 



PENNY CYCLO.] 


THE REIGN OP HENRY VIII. 


569 


tain the connexion with England ; and to have been assented to by king Henry in 
great part from his wish to avoid the repayment of the dower of the princess. The 
final agreement between the two kings was signed 23rd June, 1503, and, according 
to the chroniclers, the parties were affianced on Sunday the 25th of the same 
month, at the bishop of Salisbury’s house in Fleet Street, although the dispensa¬ 
tion was certainly not obtained from Pope Julius II. till the 26th of December 
following. 

Henry became king 22nd April, 1509, being then in his 19th year. On a 
memorial being presented by the Spanish ambassador, it was, notwithstanding the 
opposition of Warham, archbishop of Canterbury, resolved in the council that the 
marriage with Catherine should be completed. The marriage was accordingly 
solemnized in the beginning of June. 

Henry was indebted for the warm and general gratulation with which his acces¬ 
sion was hailed by his subjects, partly to his distinguished personal advantages and 
accomplishments, and to some points of manner and character adapted to take the 
popular taste ; partly to the sense of relief produced by the termination of the 
austere and oppressive rule of his predecessor. One of the earliest proceedings of 
the new reign was the trial and punishment of his father s ministers, Dudley and 
Empson. They were indicted for a conspiracy to take possession of London with 
an armed force during the last illness of the late king, and being convicted on this 
charge, and afterwards attainted by parliament, were, after lying in gaol foi about a 
year, beheaded together on Tower Hill, 17th August, 1510. 

Henry had not been long upon the throne when he was induced to join what 
was called the Holy League, formed against France by the pope, the emperor, and 
the king of Spain. A force of 10,000 men was sent to Biscay under the earl of 
Dorset in the spring of 1512, to co-operate with an army promised by Ferdinand 
for the conquest of Guienne ; but the Spanish king, after dexterously availing him¬ 
self of the presence of the English troops to enable him to overrun and take 
possession of Navarre, showed plainly that he had no intention of assisting his ally 
in his object ; and after having had his ranks thinned, not by the sword, but by 
disease Dorset was compelled by discontents in his camp, which rose at last to 
actual mutiny, to return to England before the end of the year, without having 
done anythin^. The next year Henry passed over in person to France with a new 
army and having been joined by the emperor Maximilian, defeated the French, 4th 
Vu/ust at Guinegaste, in what was called the Battle of the Spurs, from the unusual 
energy the beaten party are said to have shown in riding off the ground, and took 
the two towns of Terouenne and Tournay. On the 9th of September also the 
Scottish king James IV., who as the ally of France had invaded Eng and was de¬ 
feated by the earl of Surrey in the great battle of Flodden, he himself with many 
of his principal nobility being left dead on the field. This war with France how¬ 
ever was ended the following year by a treaty, the principal condition of whmh 

was that Louis XII, who had just lost his queen Ann of uf® s houldwed 
had been in the first instance married to his predecessor Chailes VIII should wed 

Henry’s sister, the Princess Mary. The marriage between Louis, who was m 
fifty-third and the English princess, as yet only in her sixteenth year, was solem- 
n^d^October, 1514; but Louis died within three 

she avai- her own mistress, when his young widow gave her hand to Charles 
don, duke of Suffolk, an alliance out of which afterwards sprang a claim to the 

Cr °Tho members of Henry’s council, when he came to the throne, had been selected, 
accor^g to lord Herbert, tout of’those his father most trusted,’ by his grand- 

motoer the countess of Richmond, ‘ noted to be a vrrtuous and prudent lady. A 






570 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [PENNY CYCLO. 

rivalry however and contest for the chief power soon broke out between Richard 
Fox, bishop of Winchester, secretary and lord privy seal, and Thomas Howard, earl 
of Surrey (afterwards duke of Norfolk), who held the office of lord treasurer. This 
led to the introduction at court of the famous Thomas Wolsey, who, being then 
dean of Lincoln, was brought forward by Fox to counteract the growing ascendancy 
of Surrey, and who speedily made good for himself a place in the royal favour that 
reduced all the rest of the king’s ministers to insignificance, and left in his hands 
for a long course of years nearly the whole power of the state. The reign of 
Wolsey may be considered as having begun after the return of Henry from his ex¬ 
pedition to France, towards the close of the year 1513 ; and henceforth the affairs 
of the kingdom for fourteen or fifteen years were directed principally by the inte¬ 
rests of his ambition, which governed and made subservient to its j)urposes even 
the vanity and other passions of his master. 

The history of the greater part of this period consists of Henry’s transactions 
with his two celebrated contemporaries, Francis I. of France, the successor of Louis 
XII., and Charles, originally archduke of Austria, but who became king of Spain as 
Charles I. by the death of his mother’s father, Ferdinand, in 1516, and three years 
after was elected to succeed his paternal grandfather Maximilian I. as emperor of 
Germany. His position might have enabled the English king in some degree to 
hold the balance between these two irreconcileable rivals, who both accordingly 
made it a principal point of policy to endeavour to secure his friendship and 
alliance ; but his influence on their long contention was in reality very inconsider¬ 
able, directed as it was for the most part either by mere caprice, or by nothing 
higher than the private resentments, ambitions, and vanities of himself or his 
minister. The foreign policy of this reign had nothing national about it, either in 
reality or even in semblance; it was neither regulated by a view to the true in¬ 
terests of the country, nor even by any real, however mistaken, popular sentiment. 
Henry had himself been a candidate for the imperial dignity when the prize was 
obtained by Charles ; but he never had for a moment the least chance of success. 
For a short time he remained at peace, both with Charles and Francis ; the former 
of whom paid him a visit at Dover in the end of May, 1520 ; and with the latter 
of whom he had a few days after a seemingly most amicable interview, celebrated 
under the name of the ‘ Field of the Cloth of Gold,’ in the neighbourhood of Calais. 
Wolsey’s object at this time however was to detach his master from the interests 
of the French king ; and a visit which Henry paid to the emperor at Gravelines, 
on his way home, showed Francis how little he was to count upon any lasting 
effect of their recent cordialities. Before the close of the following year Henry was 
formally joined in a league with the emperor and the pope; and in March, 1522, 
he declared war against France. In the summer of the same year the emperor 
flattered him by paying him a visit at London ; his vanity having also been a short 
time before gratified in another way by the title of ‘Defender of the Faith’ be¬ 
stowed upon him by pope Leo X. (recently succeeded by Adrian YI.) for a Latin 
treatise which he had published ‘ On the Seven Sacraments,’ in confutation of 
Luther. Henry continued to attach himself to the interest of the emperor,—even 
sending an army to France, in August, 1523, under the duke of Suffolk, which 
succeeded in taking several towns, though only to give them up again in a few 
months,—until the disappointment, for the second time, of Wolsey’s hope of being 
made pope through the influence of Charles, on the death of Adrian in September 
of the last-mentioned year, is supposed to have determined that minister upon a 
change of politics. Before the memorable defeat and capture of Francis at the 
uattle of Pavia, 24th February, 1525, the English king had made every preparation 
to break with the emperor; having actually commenced negotiations for a peace 


PENNY CYCLO.] 


THE REIGN OF HENRY VIII. 


571 


■with. Francis’s ally, James V., the young king of Scotland, on condition of giving 
James in marriage his daughter the princess Mary (afterwards queen), who had 
been already promised to the emperor. In August he concluded a treaty of peace 
and alliance with France ; and after the release of Francis, in March, 1 526, Henry 
was declared protector of the league styled 1 Most Clement and Most Holy,’ which 
was formed under the auspices of the pope for the renewal of the war against 
Charles. 

Before this date two domestic occurrences took place that especially deserve to 
be noted. The first of these was the execution, in 1513, immediately before 
Henry proceeded on his expedition to France, of Edmund de la Pole, duke of Suffolk, 
whose mother was Elizabeth Plantagenet, sister of Edward IY.; he had lain a 
prisoner in the Tower ever since a short time before the death of the late king, who 
had contrived to obtain possession of his person after he had fled to the Continent, 
and, it is said, had in his last hours recommended that he should not be suffered 
to live. He was now put to death without any form of trial or other legal pro¬ 
ceeding, his crime, there can be no doubt, being merely his connexion with the 
House of York. Lord Herbert tells us that Henry’s going to the Continent at this 
time was deemed dangerous and inexpedient, on the ground ‘ that if the king should 
die without issue, however the succession were undoubted in his sister Margaret, 
yet the people were so affected to the House of York, as they might take Edmund 
de la Pole out of the Tower and set him up.’ Wolsey was perhaps as yet too new 
in office to be fairly made answerable for this act of bloodshed ; in the next case 
the unfortunate victim is generally believed to have been sacrificed to his resent¬ 
ment and thirst of vengeance. In 1521 Edward Stafford, duke of Buckingham, 
son of the duke beheaded by Kichard III., was apprehended on some information 
furnished to Wolsey by a discarded servant, and being brought to trial was found 
guilty and executed as a traitor. The acts with which he was charged did not 
according to law amount to treason, even if they had been proved ; but the duke 
is said bycertain indiscretions of speech and demeanor to have wounded the pride 
of the all-powerful minister ; and, besides, he was also of dangerous pedigree, being 
not only maternally of the stock of John of Gaunt, but likewise a Plantagenet by 
his descent from Anne, the daughter of Edward the Third’s youngest son Thomas, 
duke of Gloucester. With this nobleman came to an end the great office of here¬ 
ditary lord high constable. _ . _ 

What may be called the second part of Henry’s reign begins m the year 152/, 
from which date our attention is called to a busy scene of domestic transactions 
beside which the foreign politics of the kingdom become of little interest or im¬ 
portance. It is no longer the ambition and intrigue of the minister, but the wil¬ 
fulness and furious passions of the king himself, that move all things. In 152/ 
Henry cast his eyes upon Anne Boleyn, and appears to have very soon formed the 
design of ridding himself of Catherine, and making the object of this new attach¬ 
ment his queen. Anne was understood to be favourably disposed towards those 
new views on the subject of religion and ecclesiastical affairs which had been agi¬ 
tating all Europe ever since Luther had begun his intrepid career by publicly op¬ 
posing indulgences at Wittemberg ten years before. Queen Catherine on the other 
hand was'a good Catholic ; and, besides, the circumstances in which she was placed 
made it her interest to take her stand by the church, as on the other hand her 
adversaries were driven in like manner by their interests and the course of events 
into dissent and opposition. This one consideration sufficiently explains all t at 
followed. The friends of the old religion generally considered Catherineiscause as 
their own ; the reformers as naturally arrayed themselves on the side of her n\a . 





572 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [PENNY CYCLO. 

Henry himself again, though he had been till now resolutely opposed to the new 
opinions, was carried over by his passion towards the same side ; the consequence 
of which was the loss of the royal favour by those who had hitherto monopolized it, 
and its transference in great part to other men, to be employed by them in the 
promotion of entirely opposite purposes and politics. The proceedings for the 
divorce were commenced by an application to the court of .Rome, in August, 1527. 
For two years the affair lingered on through a succession of legal proceedings, but 
without any decisive result. Prom the autumn of 1529 are to be dated both the 
fall of Wolsey and the rise of Cranmer. The death of the great cardinal took place 
29th November, 1530. In January following the first blow was struck at the 
church by an indictment being brought into the King’s Bench against all the 
clergy of the kingdom for supporting Wolsey in the exercise of his legatine powers 
without the royal licence, as required by the old statutes of provisors and premu- 
nire ; and it was in an act passed immediately after by the Convocation of the pro¬ 
vince of Canterbury, for granting to the king a sum of money to exempt them from 
the penalties of their conviction on this indictment, that the first movement was 
made towards a revolt against the see of Rome, by the titles given to Henry of 
‘ the one protector of the English church, its only and supreme lord, and, as far as 
might be by the law of Christ, its supreme head.’ Shortly after, the convocation de¬ 
clared the king’s marriage with Catherine to be contrary to the law of God. The 
same year Henry went the length of openly countenancing Protestantism abroad 
by remitting a subsidy to the confederacy of the Elector of Brandenburg and other 
German princes, called the League of Smalcald. In August, 1532, Cranmer was 
ajjpointed to the archbishopric of Canterbury. In the beginning of the year 1533 
Henry was privately married to Anne Boleyn ; and on the 23rd of May following 
archbishop Cranmer pronounced the former marriage with Catherine void. In the 
meantime the parliament had passed an act forbidding all appeals to the see of 
Rome. Pope Clement VII. met this by annulling the sentence of Cranmer in the 
matter of the marriage; on which the separation from Rome became complete. 
Acts were passed by the parliament the next year declaring that the clergy should 
in future be assembled in convocation only by the king’s writ, that no constitutions 
enacted by them should be of force without the king’s assent, and that no first 
fruits or Peter’s pence, or money for dispensations, should be any longer paid to the 
pope. The clergy of the province of York themselves in convocation declared that 
the pope had no more power in England than any other bishop. A new and most 
efficient supporter of the Reformation now also becomes conspicuous on the scene, 
Thomas Cromwell (afterwards lord Cromwell and earl of Essex), who was this year 
made first secretary of state, and then master of the rolls. In the next session, 
the parliament, which re-assembled in the end of this same year, passed acts de¬ 
claring the king’s highness to be supreme head of the church of England, and to 
have authority to redress all errors, heresies, and abuses in the church ; and order¬ 
ing first-fruits and tenths of all spiritual benefices to be paid to the king. After 
this various persons were executed for refusing to acknowledge the king’s supre¬ 
macy ; among others, two illustrious victims, the learned Fisher, bishop of Roches¬ 
ter, and the admirable Sir Thomas More. In 1535 began the dissolution of the 
monasteries, under the zealous superintendance of Cromwell, constituted for that 
purpose visitor-general of these establishments. Latimer and other friends of 
Cranmer and the Reformation were now also promoted to bishoprics ; so that not 
only in matters of discipline and polity, but even of doctrine, the church might be 
said to have separated itself from Rome. One of the last acts of the parliament 
under which all these great innovations had been made was to petition the king 





PENNY' CYCLO.] 


THE REIGN OP HENRY VIII. 


573 


that a new translation of the Scriptures might be made by authority and set up in 
churches. It was dissolved on the 18th of July, 1536, after having sat for the 
then unprecedented period of six years. 

Events now set in a new current. The month of May of this year witnessed the 
trial and execution of Queen Anne—in less than six months after the death of her 
predecessor, Catherine of Aragon—and the marriage of the brutal king, the very 
next morning, to Jane Seymour, the new beauty, his passion for whom must be 
regarded as the true motive that had impelled him to the deed of blood. Queen 
Jane dying on the 14th of October, 1537, a few days after giving birth to a son, 
was succeeded by Anne, sister of the duke of Cleves, whom Henry married in 
January, 1540, and put away in six months after—the subservient parliament, and 
the not less subservient convocation of the clergy, on his mere request, pronouncing 
the marriage to be null, and the former body making it high treason £ by word or 
deed to accept, take, judge, or believe the said marriage to be good.’ 

Meanwhile the ecclesiastical changes continued to proceed at as rapid a rate as 
ever. In 1536 Cromwell was constituted a sort of lord-lieutenant over the church, 
by the title of vicar-general, which was held to invest him with all the king’s autho¬ 
rity over the spiritualty. The dissolution of the monasteries in this and the 
following year, as carried forward under the direction of this energetic minister, 
produced a succession of popular insurrections in different paits of the kingdom, 
which were not put down without great destruction of life, both in the field and 
afterwards by the executioner. In 1538 all incumbents were ordered to set up in 
their churches copies of the newly-published English translation of the Bible, and 
to teach the people the Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, and the Ten Commandments, in 
English ; the famous image of our Lady at Walsingham, and other similar objects 
of the popular veneration, were also under Cromwell’s order removed from their 
shrines and burnt. In 1539 the parliament, after enacting (by the 31 Henry VIII., 
c 8) that the proclamation of the king in council should henceforth have the same 
authority as a statute, passed the famous act (the 31 Henry VIII., c. 14) known 
by the name of the Six Articles, or the Bloody Statute, by which burning or hang- 
ino 1 was made the punishment of all who should deny that the bread and wine of 
the sacrament was the natural body and blood of the Saviour—or that communion 
in both kinds was not necessary to salvation—or that priests may not marry—or 
that vows of chastity ought to be observed—or that the mass was agreeable to 

God’s law_or that auricular confession is expedient and necessary. This statute, 

the cause of numerous executions, proceeded from a new influence which had now 
gained an ascendancy over the fickle king, that of Gardiner bishop of Winchester, 
the able leader of the party in church and state opposed to Cranmer and Cromwell. 
This new favourite was not long in effecting the ruin of the rival that was most in 
his wav • Cromwell, who had just been created earl of Essex, and made lord cham¬ 
berlain of England, was in the beginning of June, 1540, committed to the Tower 
on a charge of treason, and beheaded in a few weeks after. . • 

On the°8th of August this year Henry married his fifth wife the Lady Catherine 
Howard, whom he beheaded, 13th February, 1542. During this interval he also 
rid himself by the axe of the executioner of a noble lady whom he had attainted 
and consigned to a prison two years before on a charge of treason, Margaret, countess 
dowager of Salisbury, the daughter of the late duke of Clarence and the last o le 
YorkPlantagenets. Her real crime was that she was the mother of cardinal Pole, 
who had offended the tyrant, and who was himself beyond his reach. 

In the latter part of the year 1542 war was declared by Henry against Scotland, 
with a revival of the old claim to the sovereignty of that kingdom An incursion 
made by the duke of Norfolk into Scotland, in October, was followed the next 



574 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


L PENNY CYCLO. 


month by the advanoi of a Scottish army into England ; but this force was com¬ 
pletely defeated and dispersed at Solway Moss, a disaster which is believed to have 
killed king James, who died a few weeks after, leaving his crown to a daughter, the 
unfortunate Mary Stuart, then only an infant seven days old. The failure of the 
efforts of the English king to obtain possession of the government and of the young 
queen, owing to tbe successful resistance of cardinal Beaton and the Catholic party, 
led to a renewal of hostilities in the spring of 1544, when Scotland was invaded 
by a great army under the earl of Hertford, which penetrated as far as Edinburgh, 
and burned that capital with many other towns and villages. In the preceding 
year also Henry had concluded a new alliance with the emperor against the French 
king ; and in July, 1544, he passed over with an army to France, with which he suc¬ 
ceeded in taking the town of Boulogne. On this however the emperor made a 
separate peace with Francis ; and on the 7th of June, 1546, Henry also signed a 
treaty with that king, in which he agreed to restore Boulogne and its dependencies 
in consideration of a payment of two millions of crowns. 

He had some years before found a sixth wife, Catherine Parr, the widow of the 
Lord Latimer, whom he married 10th July, 1543. As the infirmities of age and 
disease grew upon him, the suspiciousness and impetuosity of his temper acquired 
additional violence, and the closing years of his reign were as deeply stained with 
blood as any that had preceded them. One of his last butcheries was that of the 
amiable and accomplished Henry Howard, earl of Surrey, who, being convicted, after 
the usual process, of treason, was executed on the 19th (other accounts say the 
21st) of January, 1547. Already Henry, says Holinshed, ‘was lying in the agonies 
of death.’ Surrey’s father, the duke of Norfolk, was also to have suffered on the 
28th ; but was saved by the death of the king at two o’clock on the morning of 
that day. 

The children of Henry VIII. were : 1. and 2. by Catherine of Aragon, two sons 
who died in infancy ; 3. Mary, afterwards queen of England ; 4. by Anne Boleyn, 
Elizabeth, afterwards queen ; 5. a son still-born, 29th February, 1535 ; 6. by Jane 
Seymour Edward, by whom he was succeeded on the throne. 


154.—THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 

* Hall’s Chronicle. 

The 10th day of October the king came to Dover, and on the 11th day in the 
morning, being Friday, at three of the clock, he took shipping in Dover road, and 
before ten of the clock the same day, he, with the lady marchioness of Pem¬ 
broke, landed at Calais, where he was honourably received with procession, and 
brought to Saint Nicholas Church, where he heard mass, and so to his place called 
the Exchequer, where he lodged. And on the Sunday after came to Calais, the 
Lord Roche Baron, and Monsieur de Mountpesat, messengers from the French king, 
advertising the king of England, that the French king would repair to Abbeville the 
same night, marching towards Boulogne, of which tidings the king was very triad, 
but suddenly came a messenger, and reported that the Great Master of France ^and* 
the Archbishop of Rouen, with divers noblemen of France, were come to Sandifeld 
intending to come to Calais, to salute the king, from the king their master. He 
being thereof advertised, sent in great haste the 15th day of October, the Duke of 
"Norfolk, the Marquis of Exeter, the Earls of Oxford, Derby, and Rutland, the Lord 
Sands, and the Lord Fitzwater, with three hundred gentlemen, which honourably 
received the French lords, at the English pale, and so brought them to the King’s 



hall’s chronicle.! 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


575 


presence in Calais, which stood under a rich cloth of estate of such value that they 
much mused of the riches. The King (as he that knew all honour and nature) 
received the French lords very lovingly and amiably, and with them took a day and 
place of meeting : these lords were highly feasted, and after dinner departed to 
Boulogne. 

’While the king lay thus in Calais, he viewed the walls, towers, and bulwarks, 
and devised certain new fortifications, for the maintenance and defence of the town. 
The town of Calais had at this season twenty-four hundred beds, and stabling for 
two thousand horses, beside the villages adjacent. 

The 20th day of this month, the king being advertised that the French king was 
come to a village called Marguison, nigh to the English pale, marched out of Calais 
the next day after, accompanied with the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, and with 
the Marquises of Dorset and Exeter, the Earls of Arundel, Oxford, Surrey, Essex, 
Derby, Kutland, Huntingdon, and Sussex, and divers viscounts, barons, knights of 
the Garter, and gentlemen, freshly appareled and richly trimmed, and so passed 
toward the place appointed for the interview, leaving behind them the greatest part 
of the yeomen in Calais, because that Boulogne was too little for both the tiains. 
For the Frenchmen said their train was twenty thousand horse, which caused the 
Englishmen to cast many perils, and especially because it was bruited abroad, that 
the French king should say, the king of England was once his enemy, and main¬ 
tained the Emperor and the Duke of Bourbon against him, and now he was become 
his most friend. The rehearsing of these old grudges, many Englishmen suspected, 
and very loath that the king should go to Boulogne, but the king continued still 
in his journey, and came to Sandingfeld, and a little from that place in a valley, 
was the French king nobly accompanied, with three hundred horse, and not much 
more. The king’s train waved on the left hand, to give the French king and his 
train the right hand : likewise did the French part, to give the Englishmen the 
right hand ; so the two kings with all lovely honour met with bare heads, arid em¬ 
braced other in such fashion, that all that beheld them rejoiced The king of 
England was appareled in a coat of great riches, in braids of gold laid loose on 
russet velvet, and set with trefoiles, full of pearl and stone. The French king was 
in a coat of crimson velvet, all to cut, lined with slender cloth of gold plucked out 
through the cuts. The noblemen on both parties were richly appareled , anc as 
was reported, the French king said openly to the king of England : Sir, you be the 
same person that I am most bound to in the world, and sith it hath Phased you m 
person to visit me, I am bound in person to seek you, and for the very friends ip 
that I have found in you, I am yours and will be, and so I require you to take me 
and with that put off his bonnet: the king of England soberly answered, If e\ er 
did any thing to your liking I am glad, and as touching the pam to come hither to 
see yol, I Jure you it is°my great comfort, yea, and I had come farther to 
visited you. Then the kings embraced the lords and estates, as the French k 0 
the lords of England, and the king of England the lords of France, and that done 
they set forward toward Boulogne, and in riding they cast of hawks caUed sake t 
the kites, which made to them great sport, and in a Tidley beyond Sandingfeld the 
king of Navarre met the kings, and there they alighted and drank and after that 

the; mounted on horseback, and with hawking and other pnncely p^time they 

came near to Boulogne, where on a hill stood ranged in a fair band the nu^ f 

five hundred men on horseback, of whom the chief weie, t ° , 

sons, the Dauphin, the Duke of Orleans, and the Duke of A^ouleme, and on them 
eave attendance, the Admiral of France, and three Caidinals, 
lobles of France • these three princes marched forward, and welcomed the kin 
Snd, wS them well beheld, and lovingly them received, as he that could as 






HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


570 


[hall’s chronicle 


much nurture, as any prince that ever was. Then the French king said to his 1 
children openly : My children, I am your father, but to this prince here you are as 
much bound, as to me your natural father, for he redeemed me and you from 
captivity: wherefore on my blessing I charge you to be to him loving always. The 
king of England ceased the French king’s tale, and embraced the young princes, 
each after other: all their three apparels were black velvet, embroidered with silver 
of damask. Then all these noble company came to Boulogne, where was a great 
shot of artillery, for on the one side they shot great pellets, which made a great 
noise : then these two princes offered at Our Lady of Boulogne, and the French 
king brought the king of England to his lodging in the Abbey, directly against his 
own lodging, where the king of England had divers chambers, the outer chamber 
was hanged with fair arras, and another chamber was hanged with green velvet, 
embroidered with vignettes of gold, and fret with flowers of silver, and small twigs 
of wreathen work, and in the middle of every pane or piece was a fable of Ovid in 
Metamorphoses embroidered, and a cloth of estate of the same work, valunced with 
frets, knotted, and langettes tassaled with Venice gold and silver : and in this 
chamber was hanged a great branch of silver pcrcell gilt, to bear lights. Then w 7 as 
there an inner chamber, hanged with rich cloth of gold of tissue, and the roof siled 
with the same. The fourth chamber was with velvet, and hatchments of arms, and 
devices of needlework very cunningly wrought. Every man was appointed to his 
lodging (which there was very strait) according to his degree, and great cheer was 
made to all the Englishmen ; the poultries, larders, spiceries, and cellars of wine 
were all open, and likewise hay and litter, and all other things, ask and have ; and 
no man durst take any money, for the French king paid for all. 

The French king caused two gowns to be made of white velvet pricked with 
gold of damask, and the capes and vents were of frets of whipped gold of 
damask very rich, which two gowns he sent to the king of England, praying 
him to choose the one and to wear it for his sake, which gladly took it, and so 
that Tuesday, the two kings were both in one suite : the same night the French 
king made to the king of England a supper in his chamber, which was hanged with 
arras, and siled over with rich silk, and two cloths of estates were set up, one at 
the one end, and the other at the other end ; the one cloth was embroidered with 
the image of an old man, and a woman with a naked child in her arm, and the 
woman gave the old man suck of her breast, and about was written in French: 
Better it is children wantonly to weep, than old men for need to perish. On the other 
cloth of estate, was embroidered the sun going down of fine gold, and a beast thereon, 
the head covered with a helm, and a coronal of a duke’s estate ; the beast’s body 
was all pearl, and the cloth was crimson satin. A rich cupboard was set up of 
plate, with a great number of ifieces of the new fashion. Four great branches hung 
in the chamber all of silver and gilt, which bare torches of white "wax, all the 
gentlemen of France made the Englishmen great cheer, and served them of 
delicate viands. 

In the church of Boulogne was a traverse set up for the French king, open on 
every side, saving it was siled with blue velvet, embroidered with fleur de lises 
gold ; the pillars were hanged with the same work. On the French king’s right 
hand was another traverse siled, and cortened all of white satin, embroidered with 
cables cast, of cut cloth of gold, embroidered and gilted after the fashion that 
mariners cast their ropes: this traverse wrns valanced of like work, and fringed 
with fine gold. Daily the kings heard their masses in these traverses, and com¬ 
monly they went together to mass. Divers times the kings communed together in 
council, and sometime in the morning, or the princes were stirring, their councils 
met, and sat together a great while. 






BALL'S CHROSICLE.] THE field of the cloth of gold. 

While the king of England lay thus at Boulogne.F,a"hap“; 

self loving to the noblemen o u . > m; r v. ae l of whom the king of England 

of the Companions of his Order called Saint Micha ^ ^ e s Duke of Suffolk, 

was one, and so there elected Thomas Duke of Norfolk, and^ ^ and had 

to be Companions of the said Oide , to th g e statutes of the Order, their 

there collars delivered to them and we 4 wbich dukes thanked the French 

obeisance to their sovereign lord always j., mdie d crowns apiece. All this season 

king, and gave to the officers o aims !nid v,is suardwere appareled in frocks of 

theR-eiich king and his courtwere fresh and ^ kmg of 

blue, crimson, and yellow velvet, With t ie ■ v enc Yendome, Guise, 

Navarre, the Dauphin f ^^‘Cmpes, Lavalle, and many other 

Longville, the Earls of Saint > ’ n ar dinals, and eleven Bishops with 

earb and barons, and the Prince of Mellfe fou^ Cardinals ^ tbese tw0 

their trains and resort, which sin e ) and Tbuvsda y, and on Friday the 

kings at Boulogne,Monday, Tuesday,Wed d y Calais . tbe French kings 

25th day of October, they depaited out ot ^ ^ or more . and w ithout Calais 

train was twelve hundred persons and y , g bastard son of England 

) two mile, met with them the Duk ^ of fe "“ nd ’ beauty , wit h a great company of 
a goodly young prince, and^ ful ^ tbe duke with his company embiaced 

noble men, which were . then the lords of England set forward 

the French king, and so did other b Marquis of Exeter, the Sails j of 

as the Dukes of Richmond^orfo^Sufto^^ ^ and H untmgdon, the 
Arundel, Oxford, Surrey, Dei y, B ; s hops of London, Winchester, Lincoln, a 

Viscounts of Lisle and Roc ^ efo ' ’ ' Lor ] Matravers, the Lord Montacute, the 

Bath the Lord William Howaid, t the Lord Mordaunt, the Lord Leonard 

Lord Cobham, the Lord Sands, thu Loi knight, treasurer of the king, 

Grey> the W of the same, with a ^ea numb i o, 

Ss a hesn the tty esquires and Jn— tcfdge, where 

^dgentlemen of England acconipan.ed the FienchM of soldi ers, saluted 

as Thomas Palmer, captain of t > their coming, that what o 

the kings, and so they passed toward CMais w the sbips in tbe haven 

of the town and the castle, and what out of hice^ _ ^ when tbey we re entered 

ti? e tdieTof the town stood on 

and onto other h—d and 

in C oi te of French tawney^with whi h made a goodly show^ 

e^ry ^ged 0, in Calais that night, beside the town we eim, ^ ^ i odgi „g, to the 
Wel 't , St The king of England brought the 1 r Jj as bath not been 

at the le^- hj cbambe r was hanged with so and flowers 

Staple f‘Jound of it was gold and b f Xatthey seemed to grow ; 

seen . the g silver, so curiously & « tissue, with a. 

were of satiP, ■*; other: the second chamber^ aU of *■ 

every chambet ™ edk! . w ork, get with great roses of large P nd 1 embroidere d over 
cloth of estate 0 n ve lvet pearled green and crimson, ai beasts of the 

*-«•< “‘” 5 1 ?™“ " ^ •“ “ “* 

with branches o i an d stone. H the tic d bis tram were 

same gold, set witi P ^ train> at Boulogne, I assure} ^ ^ ^ other th i ng s 

king of England an ^ plenty of 0 ffi cer s of England had made 

requited at Calais, arve i to see, for the ku D p P 

which, were there, it **• 


577 








578 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[hall’s CHRONICLE 

preparation in every place, so that the Frenchmen were served with such multitude 
of divers fishes, this Friday and Saturday, that the masters of the French king’s 
household much wondered at the provision. In likewise on the Sunday, they had 
all manner of flesh, fowl, spice, venison, both of fallow deer and red deer, and as 
for wine they lacked none, so that well was the Englishman that might well enter¬ 
tain the Frenchman : the lords of France never fetched their viands, but they 
were sent to them, and oftentime their proportion of victual was so abundant, that 
they refused a great part thereof. 

While the kings were thus in Calais, they rode every day to Saint Marie church, 
where were set two traverses, the one for the French king, which was crimson 
velvet, replenished with great roses of massy bullion of fine gold, and the seed of 
the said roses were great orient pearl, and about every rose, was a wreath all of ; 
pearl and stone, which traverse was much wondered at by the Frenchmen : the 
other traverse of blue velvet and cloth of tissue, raised with flowers of silver paned, 
all the blue velvet was embroidered with knots, and subtle draughts, of leaves and 
branches, that few men could judge the cunning of the workmanship. The Sunday 
at night, the French king supped with the king of England, in a chamber hanged 
with tissue, raised with silver, paned with cloth of silver, raised with gold, and the i 
seams of the same were covered with broad wreathes, of goldsmith’s work, full of 
stone and pearl. In this chamber was a cupboard of seven stages high, all of plate 
of gold, and no gilt plate ; beside that there hung in the said chamber ten branches 
of silver and gilt, and ten branches all white silver, every branch hanging by a long 
chain of the same suit, bearing five lights of wax. To all the riches of the clothes 
of estate, the basins, and other vessels which was there occupied, I assure you my 
wit is insufficient, for there was nothing occupied that night, but all of gold. The 
French king was served three courses, and his meat dressed after the French 
fashion, and the English king had like courses after the English fashion, the first 
course of every king was forty dishes, the second sixty, the third seventy, which 
were costly and pleasant. 


After supper came in the marchioness of Pembroke, with seven ladies in mask¬ 
ing apparel, of strange fashion, made of cloth of gold, compassed with crimson 
tinsel satin, covered with cloth of silver, lying loose, and knit with laces of gold ; 
these ladies were brought into the chamber, with four damsels appareled in crimson' 
satin, with tabards of fine cipres : the Lady Marchioness took the French king, and 
the Countess of Derby took the king of Navarre, and every lady took a lord, and i 
dancing the king of England took away the ladies’ visors, so that there the ladin 
beauties were shewed, and after they had danced a while they ceased, and.„es’ 
French king talked with the marchioness of Pembroke a space, and then he the 
his leave of the ladies, and the king conveyed him to his lodging. The same took 
the duke of Norfolk feasted all the nobles of France, being there in the .0 nio-ht 
Calais, with many goodly sports and pastimes. castle 3 of 

On the Monday, being Simon and Jude’s day, there dined with the kb 
land, the king of Navarre, and the cardinal of Lorraine, and the Great h* 0 f Eng- 
admiral of France, on which day the king of England called a Chapter oft aster and 
of the Garter, at which Chapter the French king wore the blue manthf the Knights 
because he was of the same Order, and there were elected Annas M^ of the Order 
of Beaumont, great master of the French king’s house, and Philjntmorenci earl 
earl of Neublanc, great admiral of France, which had to themippe de Chabbot 
garters delivered, for the which they rendered to the king great, their collars and 
The morrow after, being the thirtieth day of October, the tw* thanks 
of Calais, and came near to Sandingfeld, and there alighted.,'kings departed out 

/in a fair green place, 






HALL S CHRONICLE, j THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. gjrg 

\vhere was a table set, and there the Englishmen served the Frenchmen of wine 
lpocias, ruit, and spice abundantly. When the two kings had communed a little* 
they mounted on their horses, and at the very entering of the French ground they 
too hands, and with princely countenance, loving behaviour, and hearty words 
each embraced other, and so there departed. 


155.—EVIL MAY DAY. 

From ‘ Hall’s Chronicle.’ 

[The Eighth year of King Henry VIII.] 

In this season, the Genevese, Frenchmen and other strangers said and boasted 
themselves to be in such favour with the king and his council, that they set nought 
by the rulers of the city ; and the multitude of strangers was so great about 
London, that the poor English artificers could scarce get any living ; and, most of 
all, the strangers were so proud, that they disdained, mocked and oppressed the 
Englishmen, which was the beginning of_the grudge. For, among all other things, 
there was a carpenter in London called Williamson, which bought two stockdoves 
in Chepe, and as he was about to pay for them, a Frenchman took them out of his 
hand, said they were not meet for a carpenter. “Well,” said the Englishman, “ I 
have bought them and now paid for them, and therefore I will have them.” “ Nay,” 
said the Frenchman, “ I will have them for my lord the ambassador and so, for 
better or worse, the Frenchman called the Englishman knave, and went away with 
the stockdoves. The strangers came to the French ambassador, and surmised a 
complaint against the poor carpenter : and the ambassador came to my lord mayor, 
and said so much, that the carpenter was sent to prison ; and yet not content with 
this, so complained to the king’s council, that the king’s commandment was laid on 
him. And when sir John Baker, knight, and other worshipful persons sued too 
the ambassador for him, he answered, by the body of God, that the English knave 
should lose his life ; for, he said, no Englishman should deny that the Frenchmen 
required. And other answer had they none. 

Also a Frenchman that had slain a man should abjure the realm, and had a cross 
in his hand ; and then suddenly came a great sort of Frenchmen about him, and 
b one of them said to the constable that led him, “ Sir, is this cross the price to kill 
an Englishman ?” The constable was somewhat astonied, and answered not. 
I Then said another Frenchman, “ On that price we would be banished all, by the 
| mass this saying was noted to be spoken spitefully. Howbeit, the Frenchmen 
were not alonely oppressors of the Englishmen : for a Lombard, called Francis de 
Bard, enticed a man’s wife in Lombard Street to come to his chamber with her 
husband’s plate ; which thing she did. After, when her husband knew it, he de¬ 
manded his wife ; but answer was made he should not have her : then he demanded 
his plate, and in like manner answer was made that he should neither have plate 
nor wife. And when he had sued an action against the stranger in the Guildhall, 

I the stranger so faced the Englishman, that he fainted in his suit. And then the 
Lombard arrested the poor man for his wife’s board while he kept him from her 
husband in his chamber. This mock was much noted ; and, for these and many 
other oppressions done by them, there increased such a malice in the Englishmen’s 
hearts, that at the last it brast out. For, amongst others that sore grudged at 
| these matters, there was a broker in London, called John Lincoln, which wrote a 
bill before Easter, desiring Doctor Sandish at his sermon at Saint Mary Spital. the 
Monday in Easter week, to move the mayor and aldermen to take part with the 



























580 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [HALL’S CHRONICLE. 

commonalty against the strangers. The doctor answered, that it became not him 
to move any such thing in a sermon. From him he departed, and came to a canon 
in Saint Mary Spital, a doctor in divinity, called doctor Bele, and lamentably de¬ 
clared to him, how miserably the common artificers lived, and scarce could get any 
work to find them, their wives and children, for there were such a number of arti¬ 
ficers strangers that took away all the living in manner ; and also how the English 
merchants could have no utterance, for the merchant strangers bring in all silks, 
cloth of gold, wine, oil, iron, and such other merchandise, that no man almost 
buyeth of an Englishman ; and also outward they carry so much English wool, tin, 
and lead, that Englishmen that adventure outward can have no living : “ which 
things,” said Lincoln, “ hath been shewed to the council, and cannot be heard ; and 
farther,” said he, “the strangers compass the city round about in Southwark, in 
Westminster, Temple Bar, Holborn, Saint Martins, Saint John’s Street, Aldgate, 
Tower Hill, and Saint Katherines, and forestall the market; which is the cause 
that Englishmen want and starve, and they live abundantly in great pleasure ; 
wherefore,” said Lincoln, “ Master doctor, sith you were born in London, and see 
the oppression of the strangers and the great misery of your own native country, 
exhort all the citizens to join in one against these strangers, raveners and de¬ 
stroyers of your country.” Master doctor, hearing this, said he much lamented the 
case if it were as Lincoln had declared. “ Yes,” said Lincoln, “ that it is, and 
much more, for the Dutchmen bring over iron, timber, leather, and wainscot, ready 
wrought, as nails, locks, baskets, cupboards, stools, tables, chests, girdles, with 
points, saddles and painted clothes, so that, if it were wrought here, Englishmen 
might have some work and living by it ; and, beside this, they grow into such a 
multitude, that it is to be looked upon, for I saw on a Sunday this Lent VI. c., 
strangers shooting at the popinjay with cross-bows, and they keep such assemblies 
and fraternities together, and make such a gathering to their common box, that 
every botcher will hold plea with the city of London.” “ Well,” said the doctor, 
“ I will do for a reformation of this matter as much as a priest may do ;” and so 
received Lincoln’s bill, and studied for his purpose. Then Lincoln, very joyous of 
his enterprise, went from man to man saying that shortly they should hear news, 
and daily excited young people and artificers to bear malice to the strangers. 

When Easter came, and Doctor Bele should preach the Tuesday in Easter week, 
he came into the pulpit, and there declared that to him was brought a pitiful bill, 
and read it in this wise ; To all you the worshipful lords and masters of this city, 
that will take compassion over the poor people your neighbours, and also of the 
great importable hurts, losses, and hindrances, whereof proceeding the extreme 
poverty to ail the king’s subjects that inhabit within this city and suburbs of the 
same ; for so it is that the aliens and strangers eat the bread from the poor father¬ 
less children, and take the living from all the artificers, and the intercourse from 
all merchants, whereby poverty is so much increased, that every man bewaileth the 
misery of other ; for craftsmen be brought to beggary, and merchants to neediness : 
wherefore, the premises considered, the redress must be of the commons, knit and 
unite to one party, and as the hurt and damage grieveth all men, so must all men 
set to their willing power for remedy, and not to suffer the said aliens so highly in 
their wealth, and the natural born men of this region to come to confusion. Of 
this letter was more ; but the doctor read no farther; and then he began, 
Gcelum coeli Domino , terram autem dedit filiis hominum / and upon this text he in- 
treated, that this land was given to Englishmen, and as birds would defend their 
nest, so ought Englishmen to cherish and defend themselves, and to hurt and 
grieve aliens for the common weal. And upon this text, pugna pro patria , he 
brought in how by God’s law it was lawful to fight for their country, and ever hai 


EVIL MAY DAY. 


581 


HALL ? S CHRONICLE.] 

subtly moved the people to rebel against the strangers, and break the king’s peace? 
nothing regarding the league between princes, and the king’s honour. ° Of this 
sermon many a light person took courage, and openly spake against strangers. And, 
as the devil would, the Sunday after, at Greenwich, in the king’s gallery was Francis 
de Bard, which, as you heard, kept an Englishman’s wife and his goods, and yet he 
could have no remedy ; and with him were Domingo, Anthony Caueler, and many 
more strangers ; and there they, talking with sir Thomas Palmer, knight, jested 
and laughed how that Francis kept the Englishman’s wife, saying, that if they had 
the Mayor’s wife of London, they would keep her Sir Thomas said, “ Sirs, you 
have too much favour in England.” There were divers English merchants by, and 
heard them laugh, and were not content, insomuch as one William Bolt, a mercer, 
said, “ Well, you whoresome Lombards, you rejoice and laugh ; by the mass, we 
will one day have a day at you, come when it will and that saying the other 
merchants affirmed. This tale .was reported about London, and the young and 
evil disposed people said, they would be revenged on the merchant strangers, as 
well as on the artificers strangers. On Monday, the morrow after, the king .removed 
to his manor of Richmond. 

The Ninth year,—151', 

Upon this rumour, the xxvm. day of April, divers young men of the city as¬ 
saulted the aliens as they passed by the streets ; and some were stricken and some- 
buffeted, and some thrown in the canal. Wherefore the Mayor sent divers persons 
to ward, as Stephen Studley, skinner, and Bettes, and Stephenson, and divers other, 
some to one counter, and some to another, and some to Newgate. Then suddenly 
was a common secret rumour, and no man could tell how it began, that on May 
day next, the city would rebel, and slay all aliens, insomuch as divers strangers 
fled out of the city. This bruit ran so far that it came to the king’s council, inso¬ 
much as the cardinal, being Lord Chancellor, sent for John Rest, mayor of the 
city, and other of the council of the city, and demanded of the mayor in what case 
the city stood. To whom he answered, that it was well, and in good quiet. “ Nay,” 
said the cardinal, “ it is informed us that your young and riotous people will rise, 
and distress the strangers : hear ye of no such thing?” “No, surely,” said the 
mayor, “ and I trust so to govern them, that the king’s peace shall be observed ; 
and that I dare undertake, if I and my brethren the aldermen may be suffered.” 
“Well,” said the cardinal, “go home, and wisely foresee this matter; for,.and if 
any such thing be, you may shortly prevent it.” The mayor came from the cardi¬ 
nal’s at four of the clock at afternoon, on May even, and demanded of the officers 
what they heard. Divers of them answered, that the voice of the people was so, 
and had been so two or three days before. This hearing, the mayor sent for all 
his brethren to the Guildhall in great haste, and almost seven of the clock or the 
assembly was set. Then was declared to them by master Brooke, the recorder, 
how that the king’s council had reported to them that the commonalty that night 
would rise, and distress all the aliens and strangers that inhabited in the city of 
London. The aldermen answered, they heard say so ; but they mistrusted not the 
matter ; but yet they said that it was well done to foresee it. Then said the re¬ 
corder, it were best that a substantial watch were set of honest persons, house¬ 
holders, which might withstand the evil doers. An alderman said, that it was evil 
to raise men in harness ; for, if such a thing were intended, they could not tell 
who would take their part. Another alderman said, that it were best to keep the 
young men asunder, and every man to shut in his doors, and to keep his servants 
within. Then with these opinions was the recorder sent to the cardinal before 
eight of the clock. And then he, with such as were of the king’s council at his 







582 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [HALL’S CHRONICLE. 

place, commanded that in no wise watch should be kept, but that every man should 
repair to his own house, and there to keep him and his servants till seven of the 
clock of the morning : with which commandment the said Richard Brooke, serjeant 
at the law and recorder, and Sir Thomas Moore, late under sheriff of London, and 
then of the king’s council, came to the Guildhall half hour and before nine of the 
clock [sic], and there shewed the commandment of the king’s council. Then in all 
haste every alderman sent to his ward, that no man should stir after nine of the 
clock out of his house, but to keep liis doors shut, and his servants within till seven 
of the clock in the morning. After this commandment, Sir John Mondy, alderman, 
came from his ward, and found two young men in Chepe playing at bucklers, and a 
great company of young men looking on them, for the commandment was then 
scarce known, for then it was but nine of the clock. Master Mondy, seeing that, 
bade them leave ; and the one young man asked him why ; and then he said, 
“ Thou shalt know,” and took him by the arm to have had him to the counter. 
Then all the young men resisted the alderman, and took him from master Mondy, 
and cried, “ Prentices and clubs ! ” Then out at every door came clubs and wea¬ 
pons, and the alderman fled, and was in great danger. Then more people arose out 
of every quarter, and out came serving-men and watermen and courtiers ; and by 
eleven of the clock there were in Chepe six or seven hundred. And out of Paul’s 
Churchyard came three hundred, which wist not of the other; and so out of all 
places they gathered, and brake up the counters, and took out the prisoners that 
the mayor had thither committed for hurting of the strangers, and came to New¬ 
gate, and took out Studley and Petit committed thither for that cause. The mayor 
and sheriffs were there present, and made proclamation in the king’s name ; but 
nothing was obeyed. Thus they ran a plump through Saint Nicholas’ shambles ; 
and at Saint Martin’s gate there met with them Sir Thomas Moore and other, de¬ 
siring them to go to their lodgings ; and as they were entreating and had almost 
brought them to a stay, the people of Saint Martin’s threw out stones and bats, 
and hurt divers honest persons, that were persuading the riotous people to cease, 
and they bade them hold their hands ; but still they threw out bricks and hot 
water. Then a serjeant of arms, called Nicholas Dounes, which was there with 
master Moore, entreating them, being sore hurt, in a fury cried, “ Down with, 
them !” Then all the misruled persons ran to the doors and windows of Saint 
Martin, and spoiled all that they found, and cast it into the street, and left few 
houses unspoiled. And, after that, they ran headlong into Cornhill by Leadenhall, 
to the house of one Mutuas, a Frenchman or Picardc borne, which was a great 
bearer of Frenchmen, were they pick-purses or how evil disposition soever they 
were of; and within his gate, called Greengate, dwelled divers Frenchmen that 
kalendared worsted contrary to the king’s laws, and all they were so borne out by 
the said Mutuas, that no man durst meddle with them ; where*fore he was sore 
hated, and, if the people had found him in their fury, they would have stricken off 
his head. But, when they found him not, the watermen, and certain young priests 
that were there, fell to rifling : some ran to Blanchechapelton, and brake the 
strangers’ houses, and threw shoes and boots into the street. This from ten or 
eleven of the clock continued these riotous people, during which time a knight, 
called Sir Thomas Parr, in great haste went to the cardinal, and told him of this 
riot: which incontinent strengthened his house with men and ordinance. And 
after, this knight rode to the king at Richmond, and made the report much more 
than it was. Wherefore the king hastily sent to London, and was truly advertised 
of the matter, and how that the riot was ceased, and many cf the doers appre¬ 
hended. But while this ruffling continued, Sir Richard Cholmeley, knight, Lieu¬ 
tenant of the Tower, no great friend to the city, in a frantic fury loosed certain 


hall’s chronicle.] 


EVIL MAY DAY. 


583 


pieces of ordinance, and shot into the city ; which did little harm, howheit his 
good will appeared. About three of the clock, these riotous persons severed, and 
went to their places of resort, and by the way they were taken by the mayor and 
the heads of the city, and some sent to the Tower, and some to Newgate, and some 
to the counters, to the number of three hundred : some fled, and specially the 
watermen and priests and serving-men ; but the poor prentices were taken. About 
five of the clock, the earls of Shrewsbury and Surrey, which had heard of this riot, 
came to London with such strength as they had ; so did the Inns of Court, and 
divers noblemen : but, or they came, all the riot was ceased, and many taken as 
you have heard. 

Then were the prisoners examined, and the sermon of Doctor Bele called to re¬ 
membrance, and he taken, and sent to the Tower, and so was John Lincoln . but 
with this riot the Cardinal was sore displeased. Then the fourth day of May was 
an oyer and determiner at London before the mayor, the Duke of Norfolk, the 
Earl of Surrey, and other. The city thought that the duke baie them giudge for 
a lewd priest of his which the year before was slain in Chepe, in so much the duke 
then in his fury said, t£ I pray God, I may once have the citizens in my dangei ! 
and the duke also thought that they bare him no good will; wherefore he camo 
into the city with thirteen hundred men in harness, to keep the oyei and detei* 
miner. And upon examination it could never be proved of any meeting, gathering, 
talking, or conventicle, at any day or time before that day, but that the chance so 
happened without any matter prepensed of any creature saving Lincoln, and never 
an honest person in manner was taken but only he. Then proclamations were 
made that no women should come together to babble and talk, but all men should 
keep their wives in their houses. All the streets that were notable stood full of 
harnessed men, which spake many opprobrious words to the citizens, whicu. giieved 
them sore ; and, if they would have been revenged, the other had had the woise, 
for the citizens were two hundred to one : but, like true subjects, they suffered 

When the lords were set, the prisoners were brought in through the streets tied 
m ropes, some men, some lads, some children of thirteen year. There was a great 
mournino- of fathers and friends for their children and kinsfolk : among the prisoners, 
many were not of the city ; some were priests, and some husbandmen and labourers : 
the whole sum of the prisoners were two hundred and seventy-eight persons. 
The cause of the treason was, because the king had amity with all Christian princes, 
that they had broken the truce and league, contrary to the statute of king enry 
V Of this treason divers were indited ; and so for that time the lords departed 
And, the next day, the duke came again, and the Earl of Surrey with two t^usan 
armed men, which kept the streets. When the mayor, the duhe,. the Eai > 
Shrewsbury and Surrey were set, the prisoners were arraigned and thir een found 
guilty of high treason, and adjudged to be hanged, drawn, and quartered ; and for 
execution whereof were set up eleven pair of gallows m divers places where the 
offences were done, as at Aldgate, at Blanchechapelton, Gracious Street, Leadenhal, 
S:;,, counter onefand at Newgate, at Saint Martin’s at AW-ga^a 
Bishopsgate. This sight sore grieved the people to see gal ows> sed m te k g 
chamber Then were the prisoners that were judged brought to the place ot ex 
and executed in most rigorous manner; for the Lord Edmond Howard, 
to the Duke of Norfolk and knight marshal, shewed no mercy, but extreme 
80 eltv totL poor you "hngs in their execution,’and likewise the duke’s servants 
spattanj^Ojttrious'words ; some bade hang, some bade draw, some bade set 

tlip eitv on fire \ but all was suffeied. , , .1 

On Le seventh lay of Hay was Lincoln, Shawm, and two brethren 







584 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[hall’s chronicle. 

called Bettes, and divers other, adjudged to die. Then Lincoln said, “ My lords, I 
meant well ; for an you knew the mischief that is ensued in this realm by 
strangers, you would remedy it ; and many times I have complained, and then I 
was called a busy fellow : now our Lord have mercy on me ! ” Then all the said 
persons were laid on the hurdles, and drawn to the Standard in Chepe ; and first 
was John Lincoln executed ; and, as the other had the rope about their necks, 
there came a commandment from the king to respite execution. Then the 
people cried, “ God save the king ! ” Then was the oyer and determiner deferred 
till another day, and the prisoners sent again to ward, and the harnessed men 
departed out of London, and all things quiet. 

The eleventh day of May the king came to his manorof Greenwich, where the 
recorder of London and divers aldermen came to speak with his grace, and all ware 
gowns of black colour. And when they perceived the king coming out of his privy 
chamber into his chamber of presence, they kneeled down, and the recorder said, 
“ Our most natural benign and sovereign lord, we know well that your grace is 
displeased with us of your city of London for the great riot late done ; we ascertain 
your grace that none of us, nor no honest person, were condescending to that 
enormity ; and yet we, our wives and children, every hour lament that your favour 
should be taken from us ; and, forasmuch as light and idle persons were the doers 
of the same, we most humbly beseech your grace to have mercy of us for our 
negligence, and compassion of the offenders for their offence and trespass.” 
“ Truly,” said the king, “ jou have highly displeased and offended us, and ye ought 
to wail and be sorry for the same ; and where ye say that you the substantial 
persons were not consenting to the same, it appeareth to the contrary, for you 
never moved to let them, nor stirred once to fight with them, which you say were 
so small a number of light persons ; -wherefore we must think, and you cannot 
deny, but you did wink at the matter : but at this time we will grant to you 
neither our favour nor good will, nor to the offenders mercy; but resort to the 
Cardinal, our Lord Chancellor, and he shall make you an answer, and declare our 
pleasure : ” and with this answer the Londoners departed, and made relation to 
the mayor. 

****** 

Thursday the twenty-second day of May, the king came into Westminster-Hall 
for whom at the upper end was set a cloth of estate, and the place hanged with 
arras : with him was the Cardinal, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, the Earls of 
Shrewsbury, of Essex and Wiltshire, of Surrey, with many lords and other of the 
king’s council. The mayor and aldermen, and all the chief of the city were there 
in their best livery, (according as the Cardinal had them appointed) by nine of 
the clock. Then the king commanded that all the prisoners should be brought 
forth. Then came in the poor younglings and old false knaves, bounden in ropes, 
all along, one after another, in their shirts, and every one a halter about his neck 
to the number of four hundred men and eleven women. And, when all were come 
before the king’s presence, the Cardinal sore laid to the mayor and commonalt’" 
their negligence, and to the prisoners he declared that they deserved death for 
their offence. Then all the prisoners together cried, “ Mercy, gracious lord, mercy ! ’ ’ 
Then the lords altogether besought his grace of mercy; at whose request the king 
pardoned them all. And then the Cardinal gave unto them a good exhortation to 
the great gladness of the hearers. And when the general pardon was pronounced 
all the prisoners shouted at once, and altogether cast up their halters into the hall 
roof, so that the king might perceive they were none of the discreetest sort. 


HUME.l 


THE FALL OF ANNE BOLEYN. 


585 


156.—THE FALL OF ANNE BOLEYN. 


Hume. 


"While the retainers to the new religion were exulting in their prosperity, they 
met with a mortification which seemed to blast all their hopes. Their patroness 
Anne Boleyn possessed no longer the king’s favour ; and soon after lost her life 
by the rage of that furious monarch. Henry had persevered in his love to this 
lady during six years that his prosecution of the divorce lasted ; and the more 
obstacles he met with to the gratification of his passion, the more determined zeal 
did he exert in pursuing his purpose. But the affection which had subsisted, and 
still increased under difficulties, had not long obtained secure possession of its 
object, when it languished from satiety ; and the king’s heart was apparently 
estranged from his consort. Anne’s enemies soon perceived the fatal change ; and 
they were forward to widen the breach, when they found that they incurred no 
danger by interposing in those delicate concerns. She had been delivered of a dead 
son : and Henry’s extreme fondness for male issue being thus for the present dis¬ 
appointed, his temper, equally violent and superstitious, was disposed to make the 
innocent mother answerable for the misfortune. But the chief means which Anne’s 
enemies employed to inflame the king against her, was his jealousy. 

Anne, though she appears to have been entirely innocent, and even virtuous in 
her conduct, had a certain gaiety, if not levity of character, which threw her off 
her guard, and made her less circumspect than her situation required. Her education 
in France rendered her more prone to those freedoms ; arid it was with difficulty 
she conformed herself to that strict ceremonial practised in the court of England. 
More vain than haughty, she was pleased to see the influence of her beauty on all 
around her, and she indulged herself in an easy familiarity with persons who were 
formerly her equals, and who might then have pretended to her friendship and 
good graces. Henry’s dignity was offended with these popular manners ; and 
though the lover had been entirely blind, the husband possessed but too quick dis¬ 
cernment and penetration. Ill instruments interposed, and put a malignant inter¬ 
pretation on the harmless liberties of the queen. The A iscountess of Rocheford, 
in particular, who was married to the queen’s brother, but who lu y ed on bad terms 
with her sister-in-law, insinuated the most cruel suspicions into the king s mind ; 
and as she was a woman of profligate character, she paid no legald either to tiuth 
or humanity in those calumnies which she suggested. Henry Norris, groom of the 
stole, Weston and Brereton, gentlemen of the king’s chamber, together with Mark 
Smeton groom of the chamber, w r ere observed to possess much of the queen s 
friendship • and they served her with a zeal and attachment which, though chiefly 
derived from gratitude, might not improbably be seasoned with some mixture of 
tenderness for so amiable a princess. The king’s jealousy laid hold of the slightest 
circumstance, and finding no particular object on which it could fasten, it vented 
itself equally on every one who came within the verge of its fury. 

Had Henry’s jealousy been derived from love, though it might on a sudden have 
proceeded to the most violent extremities, it would have been subject to many 
remorses and contrarieties ; and might at last have suffered only to augment that 
affection on which it was founded. But it was a more stern jealousy, fostered 
entirely by pride. His love was transferred to another object. Jane, daughter of 
Sir John Seymour, and maid of honour to the queen, a young lady of singular 
beauty and merit, had obtained an entire ascendant over him ; and he was deter¬ 
mined to sacrifice everything to the gratification of this new appetite Unlike to 
1st monarch*, who judge lightly of the crime of gallantry and who deem the 
young damsels of their court rather honoured than disgraced by their passion, he 








586 


HALF-HOURS OS’ ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HUME. 

seldom thought of any other attachment than that of marriage ; and in order to 
attain this end, he underwent more difficulties, and committed greater crimes, than 
those which he sought to avoid by forming that legal connexion. And having thus 
entertained the design of raising his new mistress to his bed and throne, he more 
willingly hearkened to every suggestion which threw any imputation of guilt on 
the unfortunate Anne Boleyn. 

The king’s jealousy first appeared openly in a tilting at Greenwich, where the 
queen happened to drop her handkerchief ; an incident probably casual, but inter¬ 
preted by him as an instance of gallantry to some of her paramours. He imme¬ 
diately retired from the place ; sent orders to confine her to her chamber, arrested 
Norris, Brereton, Weston, and Smeton, together with her brother Rocheford, and 
threw them into prison. The queen, astonished at these instances of his fury, 
thought that he only meant to try her ; but finding him in earnest, she reflected 
on his obstinate unrelenting spirit, and she prepared herself for that melancholy 
doom which was awaiting her. Next day she was sent to the Tower ; and on her 
way thither she was informed of her supposed offences, of which she had hitherto 
been ignorant. She made earnest protestations of her innocence ; and when she 
entered the prison she fell on her knees, and prayed God so to help her, as she was 
not guilty of the crime imputed to her. Her surprise and confusion threw her 
into hysterical disorders, and in that situation she thought that the best proof of 
her innocence was to make an entire confession, and she revealed some indiscretions 
and levities which her simplicity had equally betrayed her to commit and to avow. 
She owned that she had once rallied Norris on his delaying his marriage, and had 
told him that he probably expected her when she should be a widow : she had 
reproved Weston, she said, for his affection to a kinswoman of hers, and his indif¬ 
ference towards his wife ; but he told her that she had mistaken the object of his 
affection, for it was herself : upon which she defied him. She affirmed that Smeton 
had never been in her chamber but twice, when he played on the harpsichord, but 
she acknowledged that he had once had the boldness to tell her, that a look sufficed 
him. The king, instead of being satisfied with the candour and sincerity of her 
confession, regarded these indiscretions only as preludes to greater and more 
criminal intimacies. 

Of all those multitudes whom the beneficence of the queen’s temper had obliged 
during her prosperous fortune, no one durst interpose between her and the king’s 
fury ; and the person whose advancement every breath had favoured, and every 
countenance had smiled upon, was now left neglected and abandoned. Even her 
uncle the Duke of Norfolk, preferring the connections of party to the ties of blood, 
was become her most dangerous enemy ; and all the retainers to the catholic re¬ 
ligion hoped that her death would terminate the king’s quarrel with Rome, and 
leave him again to his natural and early bent, which had inclined him to maintain 
the most intimate union with the Apostolic See. Cranmer alone, of all the queen’s 
adherents, still retained his friendship for her ; and, as far as the king’s impetuosity 
permitted him, he endeavoured to moderate the violent prejudices entertained 
against her. 

The queen herself wrote Henry a letter from the Tower, full of the most tender 
expostulations, and of the warmest protestations of innocence. This letter had no 
influence on the unrelenting mind of Henry, who was determined to pave the way for 
his new marriage by the death of Anne Boleyn. Norris, Weston, Brereton, and 
Smeton, were tried ; but no legal evidence was produced against them. The chief 
proof of their guilt consisted in a hearsay from one lady Winkfield, who was dead. 
Smeton was prevailed on, by the vain hopes of life, to confess a criminal correspon¬ 
dence with the queen ; but even her enemies expected little advantage from this 


THE FALL OF ANNE BOLEYN. 


587 


HUME.] 


confession ; for they never dared to confront him with her ; and he was immedi¬ 
ately executed ; as were also Brereton and Weston. Norris had been much in the 
king’s favour ; and an offer of life was made him, if he would confess his crime, 
and accuse the queen ; but he generously rejected the proposal, and said, that in 
his conscience he believed her entirely guiltless, but for his part he could accuse 
her of nothing, and he would rather die a thousand deaths than calumniate an 
innocent person. 

The queen and her brother were tried by a jury of peers, consisting of the duke 
of Suffolk, the marquis of Exeter, the earl of Arundel, and twenty-three more. 
Their uncle the duke of Norfolk presided as high steward. Part of the charge 
against her was that she had affirmed to her minions that the king never had her 
heart; and had said to each of them apart, that she loved him better than any 
person whatsoever. Which was to the slander of the issue begotten between the king 
and her. By this strained interpretation, her guilt was brought under the statute 
of the 25th of this reign ; in which it was declared criminal to throw any slander 
upon the king, queen, or their issue. Such palpable absurdities were at that time 
admitted ; and they were regarded by the peers of England as a sufficient reason 
for sacrificing an innocent queen to the cruelty of their tyrant. Though unassisted 
by counsel, she defended herself with presence of mind \ and the spectatois could 
not forbear pronouncing her entirely innocent. Judgment, however, was given by 
the court, both against the queen and lord Bocheford ; and her verdict contained, 
that she should be burned or beheaded, at the king’s pleasure. When this dread¬ 
ful sentence was pronounced she was not terrified, but lifting up her hands said, 
“0! Father! O! Creator! thou who art the way, the truth, and the life, thou 
knowest that I have not deserved this fate.” And then turning to the judges, 
made the most pathetic declarations of her innocence. 

Henry, not satisfied with this cruel vengeance, was resolved entirely to annul his 
marriage*with Anne Boleyn, and to declare her issue illegitimate. He recalled to 
his memory, that a little after her appearance in the English court some attach¬ 
ment had been acknowledged between her and the Earl of Northumberland, then 
Lord Percy ; and he now questioned the nobleman with regard to these engage¬ 
ments. Northumberland took an oath before the two archbishops, that no contract 
or promise of marriage had ever passed between them. He received the sacrament 
upon it, before the Duke of Norfolk and others of the privy council ; and this 
solemn act he accompanied with the most solemn protestations of veracity. The 
queen, however, was shaken with menaces of executing the sentence against her in 
its greatest rigour, and was prevailed on to confess in couit some lawful impedi¬ 
ment to her marriage with the king, The afflicted primate who sat as judge 
thought himself obliged by this confession, to pronounce the marriage null and in¬ 
valid! Henry, in the transports of his fury, did not perceive that his proceedings 
were totally inconsistent, and that if her marriage were from the beginning invalid, 

she could not possibly be guilty of adultery. 

The queen now prepared for suffering the death to which she was sentenced. 
She sent her last message to the king, and acknowledged the obligations which she 
owed him, in his uniformly continuing his endeavours for her advancement. From 
a private gentlewoman, she said, he had first made her a marchioness, then a queen, 
and now, since he could raise her no higher in this world, he was sending her to 
be a saint in heaven. She then renewed the protestations of her innocence, and 
recommended her daughter to his care. Before the lieutenant of the Tower, and 
all who approached her, she made the like declarations ; and continued to behave 
herself with her usual serenity, and even with cheerfulness. “ The executioner.” 
she said to the lieutenant, “ is, I hear, very expert; and my neck is very slender. 








HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


588 


[humtl 


Upon which she grasped it in her hand, and smiled. When brought, however, to 
the scaffold, she softened her tone a little with regard to her protestations of in¬ 
nocence. She probably reflected that the obstinacy of queen Katherine, and her 
opposition to the king’s will, had much alienated him from the Lady Mary. Her 
own maternal concern, therefore, for Llizabeth, prevailed in these last moments 
over that indignation which the unjust sentence by which she suffered, naturally 
excited in her. She said that she was come to die, as she was sentenced by the 
law. She would accuse none, nor say any thing of the ground upon which she was 
judged. She prayed heartily for the king ; called him a most merciful and gentle 
prince; and acknowledged that he had always been to her a. good and gracious sove¬ 
reign ; and if any one should think proper to canvas her cause, she desired him to 
judge the best. She was beheaded by the executioner of Calais, who was sent for 
as more expert than any m England. Her body was negligently thrown into a 
common chest of elm tree, made to hold arrows, and was buried in the Tower. 

The innocence of this unfortunate queen cannot reasonably be called in question. 
Henry himself, in the violence of his rage, knew not whom to accuse as her lover. 

But the king made the most effectual apology for her, by marrying Jane Seymour 
the very day after her execution. His impatience to gratify this new passion, 
caused him to forget all regard to decency ; and his cruel heart was not softened a 
moment by the bloody catastrophe of a person who had so long been the object of 
his most tender affections. 


157.—ANNE BOLEYN’S LETTER. 

“ Sir, your grace’s displeasure and my imprisonment are things so strange unto 
me, as what to write or what to accuse I am altogether ignorant. Whereas you 
send unto me (willing me to confess a truth, and so obtain your favour) by such an 
one whom you know to be mine ancient professed enemy, I no sooner received this 
message by him, than I rightly conceived your meaning ; and if, as you say, con¬ 
fessing a truth indeed may procure my safety, I shall with all willingness and duty 
perform your command. 

u But let not your grace ever imagine that your poor wife will ever be brought 
to acknowledge a fault where not so much as a thought thereof preceded. And to 
speak a truth, never prince had wife more loyal in all duty, and in all true affec¬ 
tion, than you have ever found in Anne Boleyn. With which name and place I 
could willingly have contented myself, if God and your grace’s pleasure had been 
so pleased, neither did I at any time so far forget myself in my exaltation or re¬ 
ceived queenship, but that I always looked for such an alteration as I now find ; 
for the ground of my preferment being on no surer foundation than your grace’s 
fancy, the least alteration I knew was fit and sufficient to draw that fancy to some 
other object. You have chosen me from a low estate to be your queen and com¬ 
panion, far beyond my desert or desire. If then you found me worthy of such 
honour, good your grace let not any light fancy, or bad counsel of mine enemies 
withdraw your princely favour from me ; neither let that stain, that unworthy 
stain, of a disloyal towards your good grace, ever cast so foul a blot on your most 
dutiful wife, and the infant princess your daughter. Try me, good king, but let 
me have a lawful trial, and let not my sworn enemies sit as my accusers and judges ; 
yea let me receive an open trial, for my truth shall fear no open shame : then shall 
you see either mine innocence cleared, your suspicion and conscience satisfied, the 
ignominy and slander of the world stopped, or my guilt openly declared. So that 




589 


NNNE BOLEYN ] ANNE BOLEYN’s LETTER. 

whatsoever God and you may determine of me, your grace may be freed from an 
open censure ; and mine offence being so lawfully proved, your grace is at liberty 
both before God and man not only to execute worthy punishment on me as an un¬ 
lawful wife, but to follow your affection already set on that party for whose sake 1 
am now as I am, whose name I could some good while since have pointed unto, 
your grace not being ignorant of my suspicion therein. 

u But if you have already determined of me, and that not only my death, but an 
infamous slander, must bring you the enjoying of your desired happiness, then I 
desire of God that he will pardon your great sin therein, and likewise mine enemies, 
the instruments thereof, and that he will not call you to a strict account for your 
unprincely and cruel usage of me, at his general judgment seat, where both you and 
myself must shortly appear, and in whose judgment I doubt not (whatsoever the 
world may think of me), mine innocence shall be openly known and sufficiently 
cleared. 

“ My last and only request shall be, that myself may only bear the burden of 
your grace’s displeasure, and that it may not touch the innocent souls of those poor 
gentlemen who (as I understand), are likewise in strait imprisonment for my sake. 
If ever I have found favour in your sight, if ever the name of Anne Boleyn hath 
been pleasing in your ears, then let me obtain this request, and I will so leave to 
trouble your grace any farther, with mine earnest prayers to the Trinity to have 
your grace in his good keeping, and to direct you in all your actions. From my 
doleful prison in the Tower, this sixth of May, 

“ Your most loyal and ever faithful wife, 

“ Anne Boleyn.” 


158.—THE TRAGEDY OF ANNE BOLEYN. 


Scene I. 


Rev. H. H. Milman. 


Queen and ladies , Sir Henry Norreys , Sir Francis Weston, Sir William Brereton, 

Mark Smeaton. 

Norreys. Your Majesty will grace the tilt to-day ? 

Queen. The king so wills it: mine obedience rather 
Than mine own humour sways my choice. 

Norreys. I had dared 

To hope that he your grace has deign’d to name 
Your knight, being champion of the ring, your highness 
Had given him victory by your presence. 

Queen. N orreys, 

Trust me, I wish thee all that proud success 
Thy valour and thy truth deserve. 

Norreys. That wish 

Is triumph—and my vaunting adversaries 
Are strewn already at my feet. 

Queen. Sir Henry, 

Such language breathes of the blithe air of France ; 

It brings back recollections of my youth, 

When all my life was like a jocund dream, 

Or air of gayest music ;—but, time presses— 

So, gentlemen, in the old knightly phrase, 

Go bear you bravely for your mistress’ sake. 






590 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[REV. H. H. MILMAN. 


Weston. Oar mistress thus commanding, what true knight 
Can fail or falter ? 

Queen. Courteous words, Sir Francis ; 

But I mistake me or that name calls up 
Another, and in truth, a fairer lady. 

Weston. Not—as I live. 

Queen. Take heed ! false oath false knight : 

Enough of this— 

Norreys. We kiss your highness’ hands, 

And with this talisman of strength set forth. 

Queen. Heaven prosper you ! [Mark Snieaton kneels also. 

How now ! thou ’rt over bold : 

Thou dost forget thy rank and station, youth ! 

Thou ’rt not, I deem, of gentle blood. 

Mark. No, no, 

A look suffices me. 

Queen. Truth, noble sirs, 

Your gallantry’s infectious ; this poor youth 
Must needs admire and imitate your courtesies : 

Take heed that thou offend no more—be modest, 

As thou wert wont. And now to horse, sir knights, 

Go forward, and Heaven speed the brave and noble ! 

So now to Greenwich, to look gay and light 
As this May morning, with a heart as heavy 
As dull November ; to be thought the happiest, 

Be the most wretched of all womankind. 'JEjceunt. 


Scene II. 

Gardiner and Angelo (a follower of Loyola.) 

Angelo. My lord of Winchester—thou \st seen the king \ 

Gardiner. I’ve seen a raging madman loose ; he came 
From Greenwich at full speed ; their horses seem’d 
Like those who ride for life from a lost battle :— 

What hath befallen 1 

Angelo The game is won ere played ! 

It fires beyond our hopes, the sulphurous train 
Flames up, they ’re hurled aloft, but not to Heaven. 

Wake, Hell ! and lift thy gates ; and ye, that tenant 
The deepest, darkest, most infuriate pit, 

Th’ abyss of all abysses, blackest blackness, 

Where that most damning sin, the damning others 
With direst, most remorseless expiation, 

Howls out its drear eternity, arouse 
The myriad voices of your wailing ; loud 
As when the fleshly Luther, or the chief 
Of his cursed crew have one by one gone down 
To tread your furnace chambers !—Rise ! prepare 
The throne of fire, the crown of eating flames ! 

She comes—the queen, the fatal queen, whose beamy 
Hath been to England worse, more full of peril, 

Than Helen’s was to Troy, hath seal’d for death, 



THE TRAGEDY OF ANNE BOLEYN. 


591 


KEY. H. H. MILMAN.] 

For death eternal, irremediable, 

Whole generations of her godless sons, 

And made her stately church a heap of ruins ! 

Gardiner. I am no heretic ; why keep me thus 
Upon the rack ? 

Angelo. When slightest accidents 

Lead to effects that change the doom of nations, 

Dost thou not read the visible hand of heaven ? 

Gardiner. Who questions it ? 

Angelo. Why then behold—adore it! 

My lord, we ’re wise and politic, but yet 
A foolish kerchief falling to the ground 
Shall more advance our high and righteous cause 
Than months of subtlest craft. 

Gardiner. Explain. 

Angelo. I stood 

Within the tilt-yard, not to take delight 
Carnal, unpriestly, in the worldly pageant: 

Though, Heaven forgive me ! when the trumpets blew, 
And the lists fell, and knights as brave, and full 
Of valour as their steeds of fire, wheel’d forth, 

And moved in troops or single, orderly 
As youths and maidens in a village dance, 

Or shot, like swooping hawks, in straight career ; 

The old Caraffa rose within my breast— 

Struggled my soul with haughty recollections 
Of when I rode through the outpour’d streets of Rome, 
Enamouring all the youth of Italy 
With envy of my noble horsemanship. 

But I rebuked myself, and thought how heaven 

Had taught me loftier mastery, to rein 

And curb w 7 ith salutary governance 

Th’ unmanaged souls of men. But to our purpose ; 

Even at the instant, when all spears were levell’d, 

And rapid as the arblast bolt the knights 
Spurr’d one by one to the ring, wdien breathless leant 
The ladies from their galleries—from the queen’s 
A handkerchief was seen to fall; but while 
Floating it dallied on the air, a knight, 

Sir Henry Norreys, as I learnt, stoop’d down, 

Caught, wreath’d it in his plume, regain’d his spear, 
And smote right home the quivering ring : th’ acclaim 
Burst forth like roaring waters, but the king 
Sprang up, and call’d to horse, while tumult wild 
Broke up the marr’d and frighted ceremony. 

Gardiner. Something of this I augur’d : as the king 
Swept furious by, he beckon’d me ; yet seem’d 
Too busied with his wrathful thoughts to heed 
Whom thus he summon’d ; and I heard him mutter 
“ The saucy groom ! ” and terms, which to repeat 
Were not o’er fitting priestly lips, but coupled 
With the queen’s name most strangely. Seeing this. 





592 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[REV. H. H. MILMAJSl. 


I thought it in mine office to administer 

Grave ghostly admonition, mingled well 

With certain homily and pulpit phrases 

Of man’s ingratitude, and gracious kings 

Whose bounties are abused ; the general looseness 

Of the age. The more I spake, the more he madden’d 

As though my words were oil on fire. 

Angelo. ’Twas well, 

But must be better; I have further tidings. 

I pass’d the Tower, and saw Sir William Kingston, 

Summon’d, ’twas said, with special haste, come forth 
Among his archers. 

Gardiner . Ha ! there’s more in this. 

Angelo. Prelate, there shall be—where’s the king 1 

Gardiner. I left him 

Near the apartment of Jane Seymour. 

Angelo. Good ! 

The field of battle where we have them all 
At vantage.—Lead me to him. 

Scene III. 

Anne Boleyn landing at the Tower. Sir William Kingston , Guards. 

Queen. Here—here, then all is o’er !—Oh ! awful walls, 

Oh ! sullen towers, relentless gates, that open 
Like those of Hell, but to receive the doom’d, 

The desperate.—Oh ! ye black and massy barriers, 

But broken by yon barr’d and narrow loopholes, 

How do ye coop from this, God’s sunshine world 
Of freedom and delight, your world of woe, 

Your midnight world, where all that live, live on 
In hourly agony of death ! Vast dungeon, 

Populous as vast, of your devoted tenants ! 

Long ere our bark had touch’d the fatal strand, 

I felt your ominous shadows darken o’er me, 

And close me round ; your thick and clammy air, 

As though ’twere loaded with dire imprecations, 

Wailings of dying and of tortured men, 

Tainted afar the wholesome atmosphere. 

Kingston {to the guard.) Advance your halberds. 

Queen. Oh ! sir, pause—one look, 

One last long look, to satiate all my senses. 

Oh ! thou blue cloudless canopy, just tinged 
With the faint amber of the setting sun, 

Where one by one steal forth the modest stars 
To diadem the sky :—thou noble river, 

Whose quiet ebb, not like my fortune, sinks 
With gentle downfall, and around the keels 
Of those thy myriad barks mak’st passing music :— 

Oh ! thou great silent city, with thy spires 
And palaces ; where I was once the greatest, 

The happiest—I, whose presence made a tumult 


SJ5V. H. H. MILMAN.] THE TRAGEDY OF ANNE BOLETN. 

Ill all your wondering streets and jocund marts : — 

But most of all, thou cool and twilight air, 

That art a rapture to the breath ! The slave, > 

The beggar, the most base down-trodden outcast, 

The plague-struck livid wretch, there’s none so vile. 

So abject, in your streets, that swarm with life,— 

They may inhale the liquid joy heaven breathes, 

They may behold the rosy evening sky, 

They may go rest their free limbs where they will: 

But I—but I, to whom this summer world 
"Was all bright sunshine ; I, whose time was noted 
But by succession of delights.—Oh ! Kingston, 

Thou dost remember, thou wert then Lieutenant, 

’Tis now—how many years 1 —my memory wanders, 

Since I set forth from yon dark low-brow’d porch, 

A bride—a monarch’s bride—King Henry’s bride ! 

Oh! the glad pomp, that burn’d upon the waters— 

Oh! the rich streams of music that kept time 
With oars as musical—the people’s shouts, 

That called heaven’s blessings on my head, in sounds 
That might have drown’d the thunders—I’ve more need 
Of blessing now, and not a voice would say it. 

Kingston. Your grace, no doubt, will long survive this trial 
Queen. Sir, sir, it is too late to flatter me: 

Time was I trusted each fond possibility, 

For hope sat queen of all my golden fortunes ; 

But now T — 

Kingston. Day wears, and our imperious mandate 

Brooks no delay—advance. 

Queen. Back, back, I say ! 

I will not enter ! Whether will ye plunge me ? 

Into what chamber where the sickly air 
Smells not of blood,—the black and cobwebb’d walls 
Are all o’ertraced by dying hands, who’ve noted 
In the damp dews indelible their tale 
Of torture—not a bed nor straw-laid pallet 
But bears th’ impression of a wretch call’d forth 
To execution. Will ye place me there, 

Where those poor babes, their crook-back’d uncle murder’d, 
Still haunt ? Inhuman hospitality ! 

Look there ! look there ! fear mantles o’er my soul 
As with a prophet’s robe, the ghostly walls 
Are sentinel’d with mute and headless spectres, 

Whose lank and grief-attenuated fingers 
Point to their gory and dissever’d necks, 

The least a lordly noble, some like princes. 

Through the dim loopholes gleam the haggard faces 
Of those, w'hose dark unalterable fate 
Lies buried in your dungeons’ depths ; some wan 
With famine, some with writhing features fix’d 
In the agony of torture.—Back ! I say : 

They beckon me across the fatal threshold. 


n 





594 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[REV. H. H. MILMaN 


Which none may pass and live. 

Kingston. The deaths of traitors, 

If such have died within these gloomy towers, 

Should not appal your grace with such vain terrors , 

The chamber is prepared where slept your highness 
When last within the Tower. 

Queen. Oh ! ’tis too good 

For such a wretch—a death-doom’d wretch as me. 

My lord, my Henry—he that called me forth 
Even from that chamber, with a voice more gentle 
Than flutes o’er calmest waters, will not wrong 
Th’ eternal justice—the great law of kings ! 

Let him arraign me, bribe as witnesses 
The angels that behold our inmost thoughts, 

He’ll And no crime but loving him too fondly ; 

And let him visit that with his worst vengeance. 

Come, sir, your wearied patience well may fail: 

On to that chamber where I slept so sweetly, 

When guiltier far than now, on—on, good Kingston. 

Scene IV. 

A Hail in the Tower . Duke of Norfolk , Duke of Suffolk, Marquis Exeter , and others 

as Judges. The Queen and officers. 

Norfolk. Head our commission. 

Officer. Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, 

The Duke of Suffolk, Marquis Exeter, 

Earl Arundel, and certain other peers 

Here present ; ye are met in the Tower of London, 

By special mandate from the king, t’ arraign 
Of certain dangerous and capital treasons 
Against the peace and person of the king 
Anne, queen of England. 

Grier. Come into the court, 

Anne, queen of England. 

Queen. Here. 

Officer. Anne, queen of England, 

(Be seated, it beseems your grace’s station,) 

Look on this court these peers of England, met, 

By the king’s high commission, to pass sentence 
Between thyself and the king’s grace—hast aught 
T’ obiect ere thou ’rt arraign’d ? 

Queen. I’d thought, my lords, 

It had stood more with the king’s justice, more 
With the usage of the land, a poor weak woman 
Had not been forced t’ abide your awful ordeal 
Alone and unadvised ; that counsel, learned 
In forms of law, and versed by subtle practice 
In forcing from the bribed or partial witnesses 
Th’ unwilling truth, had been assigned me. Well, 

Be’t as it is—I have an advocate 
Gold cannot fee, nor circumstance appal; 



REV. H H. MILMAN.] THE TRAGEDY OP ANNE BOLEYN. 

An advocate, whose voiceless eloquence, 

If it should fail before your earthly court, 

Shall in a higher gain me that acquittal 
Mine enemies’ malice may deny me here,— 

Mine Innocence. Proceed. 

Officer. Anne, queen of England, 

Thou stand’st arraign’d, that treasonously and foully, 

To the dishonour of his highness’ person 
And slander of his issue, thou hast conspired 
With certain traitors, now convict and sentenced,— 
George, Viscount Rochford, Henry Norreys, knight, 

Sir William Brereton, Francis Weston, knights, 

And one Mark Smeaton. 

Queen. Please, sir, heard I rightly 

My brother’s name, lord Rochford’s 1 I beseech you, 
My lords, what part bears he in this indictment ? 

Officer. The same with all the rest. 

Queen. Great God of thunder, 

Refrain thy bolt! my lords, there are among ye 
Have noble sisters, if ye deem this possible, 

I do consent ye deem it true. Go on, sir. 

Officer. And one Mark Smeaton. 

Qv^en. Would they make me smile 

With iteration of that name—a meet 
And likely lover for king Henry’s queen ! 

Norfolk. Read, now, the depositions. Each and all, 
My lords, ye have perused that dangerous paper 
Written by the lady Wingfield, now deceased— 

Heard sundry evidence of words unseemly 
And most unroyal spoken by her grace. 

Queen. The depositions ! good, my lord—I’d thought 
T’ have seen my accusers face to face : is this 
The far renown’d and ancient English justice ? 

Officer. The deposition of lord Viscount Rochford :— 
That for th’ impossible and hideous charge, 

His soul abhors it with such sickly loathing, 

Words cannot utter it: to stab the babe 
I’ the mother’s arms, to beat the brains from out 
A father’s hoary head, had been to nature 
Less odious, less accurst. 

Queen. There spake my brother. 

Officer. The deposition of sir Henry Norreys :— 

That the queen’s grace is as the new-born babe 
For him—for others, he will prove her so 
In mortal combat ’gainst all England. 

Sir Francis Weston—doth deny all guilt, 

With an asseveration, if in thought 

Or word he hath demean’d her grace’s honour, 

He imprecates heaven’s instant thunderbolt. 

Sir William. Brereton—if all women here 
In England were as blameless as her grace, 

The angels would mistake this land for heaven. 


595 






596 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[REV. H. H. MILMAN, 


Mark Smeaton doth confess— 

Queen . Confess! 

Officer. That twice 

In guilty commerce with the queen— 

Queen. My lords, 

Who is it hath suborn’d this wretched boy 1 
I do arraign that man, in the dread court 
Whose sentence is eternity ! my soul 
Shall rise in judgment, when the heavens are fire 
Around Christ’s burning throne, against that man ; 

And say, “ on earth he murder’d my poor body, 

And that false swearing boy’s lost soul in hell.” 

Officer. This full confession—sign’d, and in the sight 
Of witnesses delivered, in due form 
Of law, in every part clear and authentic. 

Norfolk. Anne, queen of England, ere this high commission 
Pass to their final sentence, hast thou aught 
To urge upon their lordships in defence 
Or palliation of these fearful charges ? 

Queen. My lords ! th’ unwonted rigour of the king 
And mine imprisonment have something shaken 
My constant state of mind : I do beseech you, 

If I speak not so reverently or wisely 

Of the king’s justice as I ought, bear with me. 

I will not say, that some of you, my lords, 

For my religion and less weighty motives, 

Are my sworn enemies—’twere to disparage 
The unattainted whiteness of my cause, 

That had defied the malice of the basest, 

Nor deigns mistrust the high-soul’d enmity 
Of English nobles. When that I have forced~you 
To be the vouchers for my honesty, 

My fame’s pure gold shall only blaze the brighter, 

Tried in the furnace of your deadly hate ! 

My lords, the king, whose bounties, numberless 
And priceless, neither time nor harsher usage 
Shall ever raze from my heart’s faithful tablets. 

The king, I say, took me an humble maid, 

With not a jewel but my maiden fame ; 

That I’m his wife, seeing the infinite distance 
Between my father’s daughter and a throne, 

Argues no base or lowly estimate. 

Think ye a crown so galling to the brows, 

And a queen’s name so valueless, that false 
And recreant to the virtue which advanced me, 

I should fall off thus basely ? I am a mother, 

My lords, and hoped that my right royal issue 
Should rule this realm : had I been worse than worst, 

Looser than loosest—think ye I’d have peril’d 
The pride of giving birth to a line of kings, 

And robb’d my children of their sceptred heritage ? 

Your proofs, my lords ! some idle words, that spoken 





THE TRAGEDY OF ANNE BOLEYN. 


597 


REV. H. H. MILMAN.] 

By less than me, had been forgotten air: 

The force of words dwells not in their mere letters, 

But in the air, time, place, and circumstance 
In which they ’re utter’d—the poor laughing child 
Will call himself a king, will ye indict him 
Of treason ? If less solemnly I’ve spoken, 

Or gravely than beseem’d my queenly state, 

’Twas partly that his grace would take delight 
In hearing my light laughing words glance off, 

As is the wont in gay and courtly France :— 

Partly,.that rais’d from such a lowly state 
Haply to fall again, I watch’d my spirit, 

Lest with an upstart pride I might offend 
The noble knights whose service honour’d me. 

If thus I've err’d, through humbleness familiar, 

Heaven will forgive the fault, though man be merciless ! 
To the rest, my lords ! knowing nought living dared 
Attaint my fame, my enemies have ransacked 
The grave; the lady Wingfield hath been summon’d 
To speak against me from her tomb —and what % 

Vague rumours ! that I will not say base envy 
(I’ll have more charity to the dead than they 
To me), but pardonable error, zeal 
For the king’s honour, may have swollen to charges, 
Which if ye trust, not the shrined Vestal’s pure. 

My lords, my lords, ye better know than I 
What subtle arts, what gilded promises 
Have been employed to make the noble knights 
My fellow criminals, my accusers ! which 
Might not have purchased life by this base service, 

And crept into a late and natural grave f 
But let me ask, my lords, who, base enough, 

And so disloyal, as t’ abuse thus grossly 
The bounties of so good a king, had risen 
To this wild prodigality of honour, 

For a loose woman to lay down his head 
And taint his name, his blood, with infamy ? 

For this besotted boy !—my lords, I know not 
If to rebut this charge with serious speech. 

Such as it is, my lords, this modest beauty 
Made me a queen, and other kings disdain’d not 
To lay their flattering incense at its shrine. 

My lord, there’s none amongst your noblest sons, 

Bich in ancestral titles, none so moulded 
By nature’s cunning symmetry, so high 
In station, but my favour had endangered 
His truth t’ his king :—and I, I that disdain’d 
Less than a crown, with wayward wantonness 
Demean me to a half-form’d, base born slave ! 

I do demand—if that ye will not damn 
Your names to everlasting infamy.— 

Here, in this court, this instant, ye bring forth 





598 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[REV. H. H. MILMAN. 


This boy ; if with one word I force you not 
To do me justice on this monstrous slander, 

Do with me as ye will. I’ve done, and now 
Renew an old petition:—if the king, 

Abused and cheated of his wonted mercies, 

Hath sworn my death ;—so order it, I pray you, 

That on my head alone fall all his wrath ; 

Let these untainted gentlemen go free, 

And mine all honour’d brother. Spare the king 
The anguish of unnecessary crime, 

And with less blood defile your own fair names. 

Norfolk. Anne, queen of England, first this court commands 
You lay aside the state and ornaments 
Of England’s queen. 

Queen. As cheerfully, my lords, 

As a young bride her crown of virgin flowers. 

Norfolk. Prisoner, give ear ! I, Thomas, duke of Norfolk, 

In name of all th’ assembled peers, declare 
The verdict of this court:—all circumstance, 

All proof, all depositions duly weigh’d, 

We do pronounce thee guilty of high treason.— 

And, further, at the pleasure of the king, 

Adjudge thy body to be burnt with fire, 

Or thine head sever’d from thy guilty shoulders. 

Queen. Lord God of Hosts !—the way ! the truth ! the life ! 
Thou know’st me guiltless ; yet, oh ! visit not 
On these misjudging men their wrongful sentence ; 

Shew them that mercy they deny to me. 

My lords, my lords, your sentence I impeach not 
Ye have, no doubt, most wise and cogent reasons, 

Best heard perhaps in th’ open court, to shame 
The wretched evidence adduced. My lords, 

I ask no pardon of my God, for this 
Of which you’ve found me guilty : to the king 
In person and in heart I ve been most true. 

Haply I’ve been unwise, irreverent, 

And with unseemly jealousies arraign’d 
His unexampled goodness. This I say not 
To lengthen out my too protracted life, 

For God hath given, will give me strength to die. 

I’m not so proudly honest, but the grief 

Of my suspected chastity is gall 

And wormwood to me ; were’t not my sole treasure, 

It less had pain’d me thus to see it blacken’d. 

My lords, I take my leave :—upon your heads, 

Upon your families, on all this kingdom, 

On him who is its head and chiefest grace, 

The palm of Europe’s sovereignty, may heaven 
Rain blessings to the end of time—that most, 

And most abundant, his redeeming grace ! 


BISHOP BURNET.] 


THE TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE INTO ENGLISH. 


599 


159.—THE TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE INTO ENGLISH. 

Bishop Burnet. 

In the Convocation a motion was made of great consequence, that there should 
be a translation of the Bible in English, to be set up in all the churches of England. 
The clergy, when they procured Tyndall’s translation to be condemned, and sup¬ 
pressed it, gave out that they intended to make a translation into the vulgar 
tongue ; yet it was afterwards, upon a long consultation, resolved, that it was free 
for the church to give the Bible in a vulgar tongue, or not, as they pleased ; and 
that the king was not obliged to it, and that at that time it was not at all ex¬ 
pedient to do it. Upon which, those that promoted the Reformation made great 
complaints, and said it was visible the clergy knew there was an opposition between 
the Scriptures and their doctrine. That they had first condemned Wickliff’s trans¬ 
lation, and then Tyndall’s ; and though they ought to teach men the word of God, 
yet they did all they could to suppress it. 

In the times of the Old Testament the Scriptures were writ in the vulgar tongue, 
and all were charged to read and remember the law. The apostles wrote in Greek, 
which was then the most common language in the world. Christ also did appeal 
to the Scriptures, and sent the people to them. And by what St. Paul says of 
Timothy, it appears that children were then early trained up in that study. In the 
primitive church, as nations were converted to the faith, the Bible was trans¬ 
lated into their tongue. The Latin translation was very ancient; the Bible was 
afterwards put into the Scythian, Dalmatian, and Gothic tongues. It continued 
thus for several ages till the state of Monkery rose ; and then, when they engrossed 
the riches, and the Popes assumed the dominion, of the world, it was not consistent 
with these designs, nor with the arts used to promote them, to let the Scriptures 
be much known : therefore legends and strange stories of visions, with other 
devices, were thought more proper for keeping up their credit and carrying on 
their ends. 

It was now generally desired that, if there were just exceptions against what 
Tyndall had done, these might be amended in a new translation. This was a plau¬ 
sible thing, and wrought much on all that heard it, who plainly concluded that 
those who denied the people the use of the Scriptures in their vulgar tongues, 
must needs know their own doctrine and practices to be inconsistent with it. 
Upon these grounds Cranmer, who was projecting the most effectual means for 
h promoting a reformation of doctrine, moved in Convocation that they should 
petition the king for leave to make a translation of the Bible. But Gardiner and 
all his party opposed it, both in Convocation and in secret with the king. It was 
said, that all the heresies and extravagant opinions which were then in Germany, 
and'from thence coming over to England, sprang from the free use of the Scrip¬ 
tures. And whereas in May the last year (1535) nineteen Hollanders were accused 
0 f some heretical opinions, “ denying Christ to be both God and man, or that he 
took flesh and blood from the Virgin Mary, or that the sacraments had any effect 
on those that received them,” in which opinions fourteen of them remained 
obstinate, and were burnt by pairs in several places ; it was complained that a I 
those drew their damnable error from the indiscreet use of the Scriptures. 
And to offer the Bible in the English tongue to the whole nation, during these 
distractions, would prove, as they pretended, the greatest snare that cou e 
Therefore they proposed that there should be a short exposition of the most useful 
and necessary doctrines of the Christian faith given to the people in the Eng ish 







000 HALF HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [BISHOP BURNET. 

tongue, for the instruction of the nation, which would keep them in a certain sub¬ 
jection to the king and the church in matters of faith. . 

The other party, though they liked well the publishing such a treatise in the 
vulgar tongue, yet by no means thought that sufficient ; but said, the people must 
be allowed°to search the Scripture, by which they might be convinced that such 
treatises were according to it. These arguments prevailed with the two houses of 
Convocation. So they petitioned the king that he would give order to some to set 
about it. To this gieat opposition was made at court. Some, on the one hand, 
told the king that a diversity of opinions would arise out of it, and that he could 
no more govern his subjects if he gave way to that. But, on the other hand, it 
was represented that nothing would make his supremacy so acceptable to the nation, 
and make the pope more hateful, than to let them see, that whereas the popes had 
governed them by a blind obedience, and kept them in darkness, the king brought 
them into the light, and gave them the free use of the word of God. And nothing 
would more effectually extirpate the pope’s authority, and discover the impostures 
of the monks, than the Bible in English ; in which all people would clearly discern 
there was no foundation for those things. These arguments, joined with the power 
that the queen had in his affections, were so much considered by the king, that he 
gave order for setting about it immediately. To whom that work was committed, 
or how it proceeded, I know not ; for the account of these things has not been 
preserved, nor conveyed to us with that care that the importance of the thing re¬ 
quired. Yet it appears that the work was carried on at a good rate ; for three 
„ years after this it was printed at Paris ; which shows they made all convenient 
haste in a thing that required so much deliberation. 


160.—DEATH OE SIR THOMAS MORE. 

From the ‘Pictorial History of England.’ 

In the month of November, 1534, parliament under the guidance of Cromwell, 
passed a variety of acts which all had for their object the creating of Henry into a 
sort of lay-pope, with full power to define and punish heresies, and to support 
whatever he might deem the true belief, or the proper system of church govern¬ 
ment. The first fruits and tenths were now annexed to the crown for ever, and a 
new oath of supremacy was devised and taken by the bishops. 

Some of the monks—the poorest orders were the boldest—refused either to 
take the oath or to proclaim in their churches and chapels that the pope was anti- 
Christ. The system pursued in regard to them was very simple and expeditious ; 
they were condemned of high treason and hanged, their fate in the latter respect 
being sometimes, but not always, milder than that allotted to the Lutherans and 
other Protestants, who were burned. Cromwell had no bowels for the poor monks ; 
and the gentler and more virtuous Cranmer seems to have done little or nothing to 
stop these atrocious butcheries. A jury now and then hesitated to return a verdict, 
but they were always bullied into compliance by Cromwell and his agents, who 
sometimes threatened to hang them instead of the prisoners. On the 5th of May 
John Houghton, prior of the Charter-House in London, Augustine Webster, prior 
of the Charter-House of Belval, Thomas Lawrence, prior of the Charter-House of 
Exham, Richard Reynolds, a doctor of divinity and a monk of Sion, and John 
Hailes, vicar of Thistleworth, were drawn, hanged, and quartered at Tyburn, their 
heads being afterwards set over the city gates. On the 18th of June, Exmen, 
Middlemore, and Nudigate, three other Carthusian monks, suffered for the same 
cause. On all these conscientious men, who preferred death to what they considered 



DEATH OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 


601 


PICT. HIST. OF ENGLAND.] 


a breach of their duty as Catholic priests, the horrible sentence of the law was 
executed in all its particulars. They were cut down alive, had their bowels torn 
out, and were then beheaded and dismembered. They suffered on account of the 
oath of supremacy ; but between the executions there was an atrocious interlude 
of a more doctrinal nature. On the 25th of May there were examined in St. Paul’s 
nineteen men and five women, natives of Holland, who had openly professed the 
doctrines of the Anabaptists, and denied the real presence of the body and blood of 
Christ in the bread and wine of the sacrament. Fourteen of them were condemned 
to the flames : two, a man and a woman, suffered in Smithfield ; the remaining 
twelve were sent to other towns, there to be burnt for example’s sake, and for the 
vivid manifestation of the king’s orthodoxy. 

But greater victims were now stricken ; for, casting aside all feelings except 
those of vengeance, Henry had resolved to shed the blood of Fisher and of More. 
These illustrious men had both been close prisoners in the Tower ever since the 
passing of the act of supremacy. The aged bishop was put upon his trial for having 
maliciously and traitorously said that the king, in spiritual matters, could not be 
the head of the church. And he was sentenced in the usual manner to die the 
death of a traitor. While he lay in the Tower, in respect for his sufferings in the 
cause of the church, his great age, learning, and unquestionable virtue, a cardinal’s 
hat was sent to him from Rome. “ Ha ! ” cried the savage Henry, “ Paul may 
send him the hat ; I will take care that he have never a head to wear it on.” 
Accordingly, on the 22nd day of June, of this same year of blood, the old prelate 
was dragged out of the Tower and beheaded. His grey head was stuck upon 
London bridge, turned towards the Kentish hills, among which he had passed so 
many happy and respected years. His body, by the king s orders, was exposed 
naked to the gaze of the populace, and then thrown into a humble grave in Barking 
church-yard, without coffin or shroud. Such was the end of Henry s oldest fiiend, 
—of an amiable and most accomnlished man, of one of the most indefatigable 
restorers of ancient learning. Without losing time, the royal monstei proceeded 
against Sir Thomas More. Archbishop Cranmer, Cromwell, and otheis had waited 
upon him several times in the Towei) with the object of winning him o\er, or 
inducing him to take the oath of supremacy, in order to sa\e his life . but Moie, 
though he had sometimes shown a timidity of disposition, had now full) made up 
his mind to die rather than to act contrary to his conscience. It is stated on good 
authority that certain underhand mancevres, which had also been employed against 
his friend Fisher, were resorted to with the view of entrapping him into treasonable 
declarations. But the examinations which rest on still better authority are the 
following On the fourteenth of June four interrogatories were ministered to him 
in the Tower by Mr. Bedle, Dr. Aldridge, Dr. Layton, and Dr. Carwen, in the presence 


of Pelstede, Whally, and Rice. . 

1. He was asked whether he had had any communication, reasoning, or consul¬ 
tation with any man or person, since he came to the Tower, touching the acts of 
succession, the act of supreme head, or the act wherein the speaking of certain 
words against the king’s highness is made treason ? He replied in the negative 

2 Item, whether he had received any letters of any man, or written any letters 
to other men, since he came to the Tower, touching the said acts or any ot them, 
or any other business or affairs concerning the king’s highness, his succession or 
this his realm ? To this he answered that he had written divers scrolls or letters 
to his fellow-prisoner Fisher, and received from him some others in return, wheieof 
the most part contained nothing else but comfort and words from either to other 
and declaration of the state that they were in in thmr bodies, and giving o t 
for such meat or drink that the one had sent to the other. But he admitted that 







602 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [PICT. HIST. OF ENGLAND. 

he had once written to Dr. Fisher, telling him how he had refused to take the oath, 
and of his determination never to show to the council the cause for which he did 
so refuse : and that Fisher had replied, telling him how he had answered the 
council, and reminding him that he had not refused to swear to the succession. 
After this he said that there passed no other letters between them that anything 
touched the king’s business, till the council went to the Tower to examine him 
(More) upon the act of supreme head, upon which his fellow-captive wrote to 
inquire what answer he had made ; and thereupon he wrote, “ My lord, I am deter¬ 
mined to meddle of nothing, but only to give my mind upon God ; and the sum of 
my whole study shall be to think upon the passion of Christ, and my passage out 
of this world, with the dependencies thereupon ; ” or words to that effect. And, 
he added, that within a short while after he received another letter from the said 
Dr. Fisher, stating “ that he was informed that there was a word in the statute, 
maliciously ; and, if it were so, that he thought thereby that a man speaking nothing 
of malice did not offend the statute, and desired the respondent to show him 
whether he saw any otherwise in it: ” to all which he (More) merely replied “ that 
the understanding or interpretation of the said statute should neither be taken 
after his mind nor after his friend’s mind ; and therefore it was not good for any 
man to trust unto any such things.” He also admitted that he had warned Fisher 
not to speak the same words to the council as he (More) had written unto him 
lest he should give grounds for a suspicion that there was some confederacy between 
them. What next follows makes the tears rush to the eyes, “ Also,” he said, “ that 
he, considering how it should come to his dear daughter’s ear (Mr. Roper’s wife) 
that the council had been with him, and how she should hear things abroad of 
him that might put her to a sudden flight: and fearing lest she, being with child, 
should take some alarm, and minding therefore to prepare her beforehand to take 
well-a-worth whatsoever things should betide him, better or worse : he did send 
unto her, both after the first examination and also after the last, letters to signify 
how that the council had been to examine him touching the king’s statutes, and 
that he had answered them that he would not meddle with nothing, but would 
serve God, and what the end thereof should be he could not tell; but whatsoever 
it were, better or worse, he desired her to take it patiently, and take no thought 
therefore, but only pray for him. And he said that she had written unto him 
before divers letters, to exhort him and advertise him to accommodate himself 
to the king’s pleasure ; and specially, in the last letter, she used great vehemence 
and observation to persuade him to incline to the king’s desire. * * * And 

he said that George, the lieutenant’s servant, did carry the said letters to and fro.” 

3. He was asked whether the same letters which he had written in the Tower 
were forthcoming or not ? To this he answered, that he would have had George 
keep the letters, but that George always said that there was no better keeper than 
the fire, and so burned them all. He added, that being free from everything secret 
or treasonable, he had even requested the poor man, for safety sake, to show them 
to some trusty friend of his that could read, and had told him to lay them before 
the king’s council, if any suspicious matter were found in them ; but George feared 
so his master the lieutenant that he kept the letters to himself, and would needs 
burn them. 

4. The last interrogatory was, whether any man of this realm, or without this 
realm, did send unto him any letters or message counselling or exhorting him to 
continue and persist in the opinion that he was in ? To which he answered, 
“ Hay.” He was further asked with what intent he sent the said letters to Dr. 
Fisher? His answer was, “that, considering they were both in one prison, and 
for one cause, he was glad to send unto him, and to hear from him again.” 


603 


PICT. HIST. OF ENGLAND.] DEATH OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 

But tc all this there was a supplement. He was asked whether he would obey 
the king’s highness as supreme head on earth, immediately under Christ, of the 
church of England, and him so repute, take, accept, and recognise according to the 
statute. To this he said that he could make no answer. He was next asked 
whether he would consent and approve the king’s highness’s marriage with the 
most noble queen Anne to be good and lawful, and affirm that the marriage with 
the lady Catherine, Princess Dowager, was, and is, unjust and unlawful. He re¬ 
plied, that he did never speak nor meddle against the same, but that he would 
make no further answer. Finally, they demanded whether he, being one of the 
king’s subjects, was not bound to recognise the supremacy as all other subjects were 
bound thereto by the statute. He replied again that he could make no answer. 

Before this he had said, in an affecting letter, “ I am the king’s true faithfu/ 
subject and daily beadsman. I pray for his highness, and all his, and all the 
realm. I do nothing harm ; I say no harm ; I think none harm ; and wish every¬ 
body good ; and if this be not enough to keep a man alive, in good faith I long not 
to live. I am dying already ; and, since I came here, have been divers times in 
the case that I thought to die within one hour. And, I thank our Lord, I was 
never sorry for it, but rather sorry when I saw the pang past ; and, therefore, my 
poor body is at the king’s pleasure. Would to God my death might do him good !” 
But this mixture of an almost heavenly meekness with an heroic firmness made no 
impression on the king, who was now drunk and mad with the heady spirit of ab¬ 
solutism. By his orders they had deprived that glorious wit and scholar of the 
sweet solace of his books—Rich, the king’s solicitor, having been sent to the Tower 
to take them all from him. Nay, they had even deprived him of pen, and ink, and 
paper. Some commiserating soul, however,—probably poor George—put some 
scraps of paper in his way ; and on such materials, and with a piece of charcoal, 
he wrote his last letter to his beloved child. At length, after a year’s most trying 
imprisonment, he was brought out of the Tower, led on foot through the crowded 
streets to Westminster Hall, and there arraigned of high treason. He appeared in 
that court where he had once presided as an upright judge, in a coarse woollen 
gown, bearing about him frightful evidences of a rigorous confinement. His hair 
had become white, his face was pallid and emaciated, and he was obliged to sup¬ 
port himself on a staff. But the mind was much less bowed and bent, and some 
of his old wit and vivacity soon lighted up his sunken eye ; and his vile judges— 
the slavish instruments of a despot—dreaded his eloquence, and the sympathy 
which the mere sight of him excited. They attempted to overpower and confound 
him with the length and wordiness of the indictment. But after declining an offer 
of pardon, upon condition of doing the king’s will, he entered upon a clear and elo¬ 
quent defence, stripping the clauses of their false coverings, and exposing them in 
their nakedness and nothingness. He maintained that neither by word nor deed 
had he done any thing against the king’s marriage with Anne Boleyn : he had, in¬ 
deed, disapproved of that business, but he had never expressed this disapprobation 
to any other person than the king, who had commanded him, on his allegiance, to 
give his real opinion. As to his having sought to deprive the king of his new 
title of supreme head of the church, he said that all that he had done was to be 
silent thereon, and that silence was not treason. But his doom was fixed by those 
who had put themselves above all law or scruples of conscience. The infamous 
Rich, the solicitor-general, who was afterwards created Lord Rich, deposed that, in 
a private conversation he had had with the prisoner in the Tower,More said, “the 
parliament cannot make the king the head of the church, because it is a civil tri¬ 
bunal without authority in spiritual matters.” More denied that he had spoken 
these words; and he remarked upon the character which Rich had borne in the 





604 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [PICT. HIST. OF ENGLAND. 

world, and which was so bad as to render even his oath unworthy of belief. Two 
witnesses were produced to support the charge made by Rich ; but, in their case, 
conscience got the better of authoiity, and they declared that, though they were in 
the room, they did not pay attention to what was said. The judges, who were 
assisted by the duke of Norfolk, and other great men appointed by the king, laid 
it down as a law that silence was treason, and the jury without any hesitation, re¬ 
turned a verdict of guilty. When sentence had been pronounced More rose to 
address the court : he was coarsely interrupted. He tried again, and was again in* 
terrupted ; but on a third attempt he was allowed to proceed. He told them that 
what he had hitherto concealed he would now openly declare, and he boldly pro¬ 
claimed that the oath of supremacy was utterly unlawful. He regretted to differ 
from the noble lords whom he saw on the bench, but his conscience would not 
permit him to do otherwise. He declared that he had no animosity against them, 
and that he hoped that, even as St. Paul was present and consented to the death 
of Stephen, and yet was afterwards a companion saint in heaven, so they and he 
should all meet together hereafter. “ And so,” he concluded, “may God preserve 
you all, and especially my lord the king, and send him good counsel!” As he 
moved from the bar his son rushed through the hall, fell upon his knees, and 
begged his blessing. With the axe turned towards him he walked back to the 
Tower, amid the great wonderment and commiseration of the citizens. On reaching 
the Tower-wharf his dear daughter, Margaret Roper, forced her way through the 
officers and halberdiers that surrounded him, clasped him round the neck, and 
sobbed aloud. Sir Thomas consoled her, and she collected sufficient power to bid 
him farewell for ever ; but, as her father moved on, she again rushed through 
the crowd and threw herself upon his neck. Here the weakness of nature over¬ 
came him, and he wept as he repeated his blessing and his Christian consolation. 
The people wept too ; and his guards were so much affected that they could hardly 
summon up resolution to separate the father and daughter. After this trial the 
anguish of death was past. The old man’s wit flashed brightly in his last moments. 
When told that the king had mercifully commuted the hanging, drawing, and 
quartering unto simple decapitation, he said, “ God preserve all my friends from 
such royal favours ! ” This happy vein accompanied him to the very scaffold. The 
frame-work was weak, and some fears were expressed lest the scaffold might break 
down. “ Mr. Lieutenant,” said More, “ see me safe up, and for my coming down 
let me shift for myself.” The executioner, as usual, asked forgiveness. “ Friend,” 
said More, “ thou wilt render me to-day the greatest service in the power of man; 
but my neck is very short ; take heed, therefore, that thou strike not awry, for the 
sake of the credit of thy profession.” He was not permitted to address the spec¬ 
tators, but he ventured to declare that he died a faithful subject and a true Catho¬ 
lic. After prayers said, he placed his head upon the block, but he bade the heads¬ 
man hold his hand until he removed his beard, saying, with a smile, “ my beard 
has never committed any treason.” Then the blow fell, and the neck was severed 
at once. His head was picked up, and fixed upon London Bridge. 

More was executed on the 6th of July, the eve of St. Thomas, in the year 1535, 
fourteen days after the death of his friend Fisher. These detestable murders spread 
a panic through the nation ; and the expression of the popular opinion, however 
timid and meek, went, with the workings of his own conscience, to increase the 
tyrant’s jealousy and apprehension. In the month of August, Erasmus wrote to a 
friend that the English were now living in such a state of terror, that they durst 
not write to foreigners or receive letters from them. In fact, in all foreign countries 
where civilization had made progress, the fate of Fisher, and still more of that ad¬ 
mirable wit and scholar, the author of the ‘ Utopia,’ excited universal execration ; 


605 


PICT. HIST. OF ENGLAND.] DEATH OF SIR THOMAS MORE. 

and there , at least, men could speak their minds loudly. The lofty eloquence of 
Cardinal Pole, and the classical point of Erasmus, recorded the crime, and their 
striking accounts were afterwards circulated throughout Europe, awakening every¬ 
where a hatred of its brutal author. It is reported of the emperor Charles, that, 
on being informed of the execution, he sent for sir Thomas Eliott, the English 
ambassador, and thus addressed him :—“ My lord ambassador, we understand that 
your master has put to death his faithful servant, and grave and wise counsellor, 
sir Thomas More.” Eliott replied that he had heard nothing of it. “Well,” said 
the emperor, “ it is but too true ; and this will we say, that if we had been master 
of such a servant, of whose abilities ourself have had these many years no small 
experience, we would rather have lost the best city in our dominions than so worthy 
a counsellor.” Nor did Charles’s rival, the French king, feel a less lively emotion. 
He spoke of the executions in severe terms, and ventured to tell the English am¬ 
bassador at his court, that his master should banish such offenders, rather than 
put to death. At this Henry was greatly incensed, and he impudently gave Francis 
to understand that they had suffered by due course of law—that they were well 
worthy to have suffered ten times a more terrible death and execution—that if 
they had a thousand lives they were all forfeited. 


161.—SUPPRESSION OF THE MONASTERIES 


Hume. 


There was only one particular in which Henry was quite decisive ; because he 
was there impelled by his avarice, or, more properly speaking, his rapacity, the 
consequence of his profusion : this measure was, the entire destruction of the 
monasteries ; the present opportunity seemed favourable for that great enterprise, 
while the suppression of the late rebellion fortified and encreased the royal autho¬ 
rity ; and as some of the abbots were suspected of having encouraged the insur¬ 
rection and of corresponding with the rebels, the king’s resentment was farther 
incited 5 by that motive. A new visitation was appointed of all the monasteries in 
England ; and a pretence only being wanted for their suppression, it was easy for 
a prince, possessed of such unlimited power, and seconding the present humour of 
a great part of the nation, to find or feign one. The abbots and monks knew the 
dan o’er to which they were exposed ; and having learned, by the example of the 
lesser monasteries, that nothing could withstand the king’s will, they were most of 
them induced, in expectation of better treatment, to make a voluntary resignation 
of their houses. Where promises failed of effect, menaces, and even extreme 
violence were employed ; and as several of the abbots since the breach with Rome 
had been named by the court with a view to this event, the king’s intentions were 
the more easily effected. Some also, having secretly embraced the doctrine of the 
reformation, were glad to be freed from their vows; and on the whole, the design 
was conducted with such success, that in less than two years the king had got 

possession of all the monastic revenues. ... , . 

In several places, particularly in the county of Oxford, great interest was made 
to preserve some convents of women, who, as they lived in the most irreproachable 
manner justly merited, it was thought, that their houses should be saved from the 
general ’destruction. There appeared also great difference between the case of nuns 
mid that of friars • and the one institution might be laudable, while the other was 
exposed to much blame. The males of all ranks, if endowed with industry, might 
be of service to the public ; and none of them could want employment suited tc 
his station and capacity. But a woman of family who failed of a settlement in the 






606 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HUME. 

marriage state, an accident to which such persons were more liable than women of 
lower station, had really no rank which she properly filled ; and a convent was a 
retreat both honourable and agreeable, from the inutility and often want which 
attended her situation. But the king was determined to abolish monasteries of 
every denomination ; and probably thought that these ancient establishments would 
be the sooner forgotten, if no remains of them of any kind were allowed to subsist 
in the kingdom. 

The better to reconcile the people to this great innovation, stories were propa¬ 
gated of the detestable lives of the friars in many of the convents ; and great care 
was taken to defame those whom the court had determined to ruin. The reliques 
also, and other superstitions, which had so long been the object of the people’s 
veneration, were exposed to their ridicule ; and the religious spirit, now less bent 
on exterior observances and sensible objects, was encouraged in this new direction. 
It is needless to be prolix in an enumeration of particulars : protestant historians 
mention on this occasion, with great triumph, the sacred repositories of convents ; 
the pairings of St. Edmond’s toes ; some of the coals that roasted St. Laurence ; the 
girdle of theVirgin shewn in eleven several places ; two or three heads of St. Ursula ; 
the felt of St. Thomas of Lancaster, an infallible cure for the head-ach ; part of 
St. Thomas of Canterbury’s shirt; some reliques, an excellent preventive against 
rain ; others, a remedy to weeds in corn. But such fooleries, as they are to be 
found in all ages and nations, and even took place during the most refined periods 
of antiquity, form no particular or violent reproach to the catholic religion. 

There were also discovered, or said to be discovered, in the monasteries, some 
impostures of a more artificial nature. At Hales in the county of Gloucester there 
had been shown, during several ages, the blood of Christ brought from Jerusalem ; 
and it is easy to imagine the veneration with which such a relique was regarded. 
A miraculous circumstance also attended this miraculous relique ; the sacred blood 
was not visible to any one in mortal sin, even when set before him ; and till he 
had performed good works sufficient for his absolution, it would not deign to dis¬ 
cover itself to him. At the dissolution of the monastery the whole contrivance 
was detected. Two of the monks who were let into the secret had taken the blood 
of a duck, which they renewed every week : they put it in a phial, one side of 
which consisted of thin and transparent chrystal, the other of thick and opaque. 
When any rich pilgrim arrived, they were sure to shew him the dark side of the 
phial, till masses and offerings had expiated his offences ; and then finding his 
money, or patience, or faith, nearly exhausted, they made him happy by turning 
the phial. 

A miraculous crucifix had been kept at Boxley in Kent, and bore the appellation 
of the Rood of Grace. The lips, and eyes, and head of the image moved on the 
approach of its votaries. Hilsey bishop of Rochester broke the crucifix at St. Paul’s 
cross, and shewed to the whole people the springs and wheels by which it had been 
secretly moved. A great wooden idol revered in Wales, called Darvel Gatherin, 
was brought to London, and cut in pieces : and by a cruel refinement in vengeance 
it was employed as fuel to burn friar Forest, who was punished for denying the 
supremacy, and for some pretended heresies. A finger of St. Andrew, covered with 
a thin plate of silver, had been pawned by a convent for a debt of forty pounds ; 
but as the king’s commissioners refused to pay the debt, people made themselves 
merry with the poor creditor on account of the pledge. 

But of all the instruments of ancient superstition no one was so zealously des¬ 
troyed as the shrine of Thomas a Becket, commonly called St. Thomas of Canter¬ 
bury. This saint owed his canonization to the zealous defence which he had made 
for clerical privileges : and on that account also the monks had extremely encou- 


HUME.] 


SUPPRESSION OP THE MONASTERIES. 


607 


raged the devotion of pilgrimages towards his tomb ; and numberless were tho 
miracles which they pretended his reliques wrought in favour of his devout votaries. 
They raised his body once a year; and the day on which this ceremony was per¬ 
formed, which was called the day of his translation, was a general holiday. Every 
fiftieth year there was celebrated a jubilee to his honour, which lasted fifteen days ; 
plenary indulgences were then granted to all that visited his tomb, and a hundred 
thousand pilgrims have been registered at a time in Canterbury. The devotion 
towards him had quite effaced in that place the adoration of the Deity ; nay, even 
that of the Virgin. At God’s altar, for instance, there were offered in one year 
three pounds two shillings and sixpence ; at the Virgin’s, sixty-three pounds five 
shillings and sixpence ; at St. Thomas’s, eight hundred and thirty-two pounds 
twelve shillings and three pence. But next year the disproportion was still greater. 
There was not a penny offered at God’s altar ; the Virgin’s gained only four pounds 
one shilling and eightpence ; but St. Thomas had got, for his share, nine hundred 
and fifty-four pounds six shillings and threepence. Lewis VII. of France had made 
a pilgrimage to this miraculous tomb, and had bestowed on the shrine a jewel, 
esteemed the richest in Christendom. It is evident how obnoxious to Henry a 
saint of this character must appear, and how contrary to all his projects for degra¬ 
ding the authority of the court of Rome. He not only pillaged the rich shrine 
dedicated to St. Thomas, he made the saint himself be cited to appear in court, 
and be tried and condemned as a traitor ; he ordered his name to be struck out of 
the calendar, the office for his festival to be expunged from all breviaries, his bones 
to be burned, and the ashes to be thrown in the air. 

On the whole, the king at different times suppressed six hundred and forty-five 
monasteries, of which twenty-eight had abbots that enjoyed a seat in pailiament. 
Ninety colleges were demolished in several counties ; two thousand three hundred 
and seventy-four chantries and free chapels ; a hundred and ten hospitals. The 
whole revenue of these establishments amounted to one hundred and sixty one 
thousand one hundred pounds. It is worthy of observation, that all the lands and 
possessions and revenue of England had a little before this period been rated at 
four million a year ; so that the revenues of the monks, even comprehending the 
lesser monasteries, did not exceed the twentieth part of the national income, a sum 
vastly inferior to what is commonly apprehended. The lands belonging to the 
convents were usually let at very low rent ; and the farmers, who regarded them¬ 
selves as a species of proprietors, took always care to renew their leases before they 

expired. 

Great murmurs were every where excited on account of these violences ; and 
men much questioned whether priors and monks, who were only trustees or tenants 
for life could, by any deed, however voluntary, transfer to the king the entire pro¬ 
perty of their estates. In order to reconcile the people to such mighty innovations, 
they were told that the king would never thenceforth have occasion to levy taxes, 
but would be able, from the abbey lands alone, to bear during war as well as peace 
the whole charges of government. While such topics were employed to appease the 
populace, Henry took an effectual method of interesting the nobility and gentry in 
the success of his measures : he either made a gift of the revenues of convents to 
his favourites and courtiers, or sold them at low prices, or exchanged them for 
other lands on very disadvantageous terms. He was so profuse in these liberalities, 
that he is said to have given a woman the whole revenue of a convent, as a reward 
for making a pudding which happened to gratify his palate. He also settled pen¬ 
sions on the abbots and priors, proportioned to their former revenues or to their 
merits ; and gave each monk a yearly pension of eight marks. He erected sax new 
bishoprics, Westminster, Oxford, Peterborow, Bristol, Chester, and Gloucester; of 





608 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HUME. 

which five subsist at this day : and by all these means of expence and dissipation 
the profit which the king reaped by the seizure of church lands fell much short 
of vulgar opinion. As the ruin of convents had been foreseen some years before it 
happened, the monks had taken care to secrete most of their stock, furniture, and 
plate ; so that the spoils of the great monasteries bore not in these respects any 
proportion to those of the lesser. 

Beside the lands possessed by the monasteries, the regular clergy enjoyed a con' 
siderable part of the benefices of England, and of the tythes annexed to them : and 
these were also at this time transferred to the crown, and by that means passed 
into the hands of laymen r an abuse which many zealous churchmen regarded as 
the most criminal sacrilege. The monks were formerly much at their ease in Eng¬ 
land, and enjoyed revenues which exceeded the regular and stated expence of the 
house. We read of the abbey of Chertsey in Surrey, which possessed 744 pounds 
a year, though it contained only fourteen monks. That of Furnese in the county 
of Lincoln was valued at 960 pounds a year, and contained about thirty. In order 
to dissipate their revenues, and support popularity, the monks lived in a hospitable 
manner ; and besides the poor maintained from their offals, there were many de¬ 
cayed gentlemen, who passed their lives in travelling from convent to convent, and 
were entirely subsisted at the tables of the friars. By this hospitality, as much as 
by their own inactivity, did the convents prove nurseries of idleness; but the king, 
not to give offence by too sudden an innovation, bound the new proprietors of abbey 
lands to support the ancient hospitality. But this engagement was fulfilled in very 
few places, and for a very short time. 


162.—THE FALL OF CROMWELL. 

Hume. 

In 1540, a session of parliament was held ; and none of the abbots were now 
allowed a place in the house of peers. The king, by the mouth of the chancellor, 
complained to the parliament of the great diversity of religions which still pre¬ 
vailed among his subjects : a grievance, he affirmed, which ought the less to be 
endured, because the scriptures were now published in English, and ought univer¬ 
sally to be the standard of belief to all mankind. But he had appointed, he said, 
some bishops and divines to draw up a list of tenets to which the people were to 
assent ; and he was determined that Christ, the doctrine of Christ, and the truth, 
should have the victory. The king seems to have expected, more effect in ascer¬ 
taining truth, from this new book of his doctors, than had ensued from the publica¬ 
tion of the scriptures. Cromwell, as vicar-general, made also, in the king’s name, a 
speech to the upper house ; and the peers in return bestowed great flattery on him, 
and in particular said, that he was worthy, by his desert, to be vicar-general of the 
universe. That minister seemed to be no less in his master’s good graces : he re¬ 
ceived soon after the sitting of the parliament, the title of earl of Essex, and was 
installed knight of the garter. 

There remained only one religious order in England ; the knights of St. John of 
Jerusalem, or the knights of Malta, as they are commonly called. This order, partly 
ecclesiastical, partly military, had by their valour done great service to Christen¬ 
dom ; and had very much retarded at Jerusalem, Rhodes, and Malta, the rapid 
progress of the barbarians. During the general surrender of the religious houses 
in England, they had exerted their spirit, and had obstinately refused to yield up 
their revenues to the king ; and Henry, who would endure no society that professed 
obedience to the pope was obliged to have recourse to parliament for the dissolu- 



THE FALL OF CROMWELL. 


609 


HOME.] 

tion of this order. Their revenues were large, and formed an addition nowise con¬ 
temptible to the many acquisitions which the king had already made. But he had 
very ill husbanded the great revenue acquired by the plunder of the church. His 
profuse generosity dissipated faster than his rapacity could supply ; and the par¬ 
liament was surprised this session to find a demand made upon them of four- 
tenths, and a subsidy of one shilling in the pound during two years ; so ill were 
the public expectations answered, that the crown was never more to require any 
supply from the people. The commons, though lavish of their liberty, and of the 
blood of their fellow-subjects, were extremely frugal of their money ; and it was not 
without difficulty so small a grant could be obtained by this absolute and dreaded 
monarch. The convocation gave the king four shillings in the pound, to be levied 
in two years. The pretext for these grants was, the great expencc which Henry 
had undergone for the defence of the realm, in building forts along the sea coast, 
and in equipping a navy. As he had at present no ally on the continent in whom 
, he reposed much confidence, he relied only on his domestic strength, and was on 
that account obliged to be more expensive in his preparations against the danger 
of an invasion. 

The king’s favour to Cromwell, and his acquiescence in the marriage with Anne 
of Cleves, were both of them deceitful appearances. His aversion to the queen 
secretly increased every day ; and having at last broken all restraint, it prompted 
him at once to seek the dissolution of a marriage so odious to him, and to involve 
his minister in ruin, who had been the innocent author of it. The fall of Cromwell 
was hastened by other causes. All the nobility hated a man who, being of such 
low extraction, had not only mounted above them by his station cf vicar-general, 
but had ingrossed many of the other considerable offices of the crown. Besides en¬ 
joying that commission which gave him a high and almost absolute authority over 
the clergy, and even over the laity, he was privy seal, chamberlain, and master of 
the wards. He had also obtained the order of the garter, a dignity which had ever 
been conferred only on men of illustrious families, and which seemed to be piofaned 
by its being communicated to so mean a person. The people were averse to him, 
as the supposed author of the violence on the monasteries; establishments which 
were still revered and beloved by the commonalty. The catholics regarded him as 
the concealed enemy of their religion. The protestants observing his exterior con¬ 
currence with all the prosecutions exercised against them, were inclined to bear him 
as little favour; and reproached him with the timidity, if not treacheiy, of his 
conduct. And the king, who found that great clamours had on all hands arisen 
against the administration, was not displeased to throw on Cromwell, the load of 
public hatred ; and he hoped by making so easy a sacrifice to regain the affections 
* of his subjects. 

But there was another cause which suddenly set all these motives in action, and 
brought about an unexpected revolution in the ministry. The king had fixed his 
affection on Catherine Howard, niece to the duke of Norfolk; and being detei- 
mined to gratify this new passion, he could find no expedient but by procuring a 
divorce from his present consort, to raise Catherine to his bed and throne. The 
duke, who had long been engaged in enmity with Cromwell, made the same use of 
her insinuations to ruin this minister, that he had formerly done of Anne Boleyn s 
against Wolsey: and when all engines were prepared, he obtained a commission 
from the king to arrest Cromwell at the council table, on an accusation of high 
treason, and to commit him to tbe Tower. Immediately after, a bill of attain clei 
was framed against him ; and the house of peers thought proper, without tiial, 
examination, or evidence, to condemn to death a man, whom a few da}s befoie they 
had declared worthy to be vicar-general of the universe. The house of commons 











610 


HALF-HOURS OF ENOLIS I HISTORY. 


[HUME. 

passed the bill, though not without some opposition. Cromwell was accused of 
heresy and treason ; but the proofs of his treasonable practices are utterly impro¬ 
bable, and even absolutely ridiculous. The only circumstance of his conduct by 
which he seems to have merited this fate was his being the instrument of the 
king’s tyranny, in conducting like iniquitous bills in the preceding session, against 
the countess of Salisbury and others. 

Cromwell endeavoured to soften the king by the most humble supplications ; but 
all to no purpose. It was not the practice of that prince to ruin his ministers 
and favourites by halves ; and though the unhappy prisoner once wrote to him in 
so moving a strain as even to draw tears from his eyes, he hardened himself against 
all movements of pity, and refused his pardon. The conclusion of Cromwell’s 
letter ran in these words :—“ I, a most woful prisoner, am ready to submit to death 
when it shall please God and your majesty ; and yet the frail flesh incites me to 
call to your grace for mercy and pardon of mine offences. Written at the Tower 
with the heavy heart and trembling hand of your highness’s most miserable 
prisoner, and poor slave, Thomas Cromwell.” And a little below, “ Most gracious 
prince, I cry for mercy, mercy, mercy.” When brought to the place of execution, 
he avoided all earnest protestations of his innocence, and all complaints against the 
sentence pronounced upon him. He knew that Henry would resent on his son 
those symptoms of opposition to his will, and that his death alone would not ter¬ 
minate that monarch’s vengeance. He was a man of prudence, industry, and 
abilities ; worthy of a better master and of a better fate. Though raised to the 
summit of power from a low origin, he betrayed no insolence or contempt towards 
his inferiors ; and was careful to remember all the obligations which, during his 
more humble fortune, he had owed to any one. He had served as a private sen¬ 
tinel in the Italian wars ; when he received some good offices from a Lucquese 
merchant, who had entirely forgotten his person, as well as the service which he 
had rendered him. Cromwell in his grandeur happened at London to cast his eye 
on his benefactor, now reduced to poverty by misfortunes. He immediately sent 
for him, reminded him of their ancient friendship, and by his grateful assistance 
reinstated him in his former prosperity and opulence. 


263.—THE LAST DAYS OF HENRY VIII. 

Hume. 

The king, now freed from all foreign wars, had leisure to give his attention to 
domestic affairs ; particularly to the establishment of uniformity in opinion, on 
which he was so intent. Though he allowed an English translation of the Bible, 
he had hitherto been very careful to keep the mass in Latin ; but he was at last 
prevailed on to permit that the litany, a considerable part of the service, should be 
celebrated in the vulgar tongue ; and, by this innovation, he excited anew the hopes 
of the reformers, who had been somewhat discouraged by the severe law of the six 
articles. One petition of the new litany was a prayer to save us from the tyranny 
of the bishop of Rome, and from all his detestable enormities. Cranmer employed his 
credit to draw Henry into farther innovations ; and he took advantage of Gardiner’s 
absence, who was sent on an embassy to the emperor ; but Gardiner having written 
to the king, that if he carried his opposition against the catholic religion to greater 
extremities, Charles threatened to break off all commerce with him, the success of 
Cranmer’s projects was for some time retarded. Cranmer lost this year the most 
sincere and powerful friend that he possessed at court, Charles Brandon duke of 
Suffolk: the queen-dowager of France, consort to Suffolk, had died some years 



HUME.] THE LAST DAYS OF HENRY VIII. gpp 

before. This nobleman is one instance that Henry was not altogether incapable of 
a cordial and steady friendship ; and Suffolk seems to have been worthy of the 
favour which, from his earliest youth, he had enjoyed with his master. The king 
was sitting in council when informed of Suffolk’s death ; and he took the opportu¬ 
nity both to express his own sorrow for the loss, and to celebrate the merits of the 
deceased. He declared, that during the whole course of their friendship, his brother- 
in-law had never made one attempt to injure an adversary, and had never whispered 
a word to the disadvantage of any person. “ Is there any of you, my lords, who 
can say as much ? ” When the king subjoined these words, he looked round in all 
their faces, and saw that confusion which the consciousness of secret guilt naturally 
threw upon them. 

Cranmer himself, when bereaved of this support, was the more exposed to those 
cabals of the courtiers, which the opposition in party and religion, joined to the 
usual motives of interest, rendered so frequent among Henry’s ministers and coun¬ 
sellors. The catholics took hold of the king by his passion for orthodoxy ; and 
they represented to him, that if his laudable zeal for enforcing the truth met with 
no better success, it was altogether owing to the primate, whose example and en¬ 
couragement were, in reality, the secret supports of heresy. Henry, seeing the 
point at which they aimed, feigned a compliance, and desired the council to make 
inquiry into Cranmer’s conduct ; promising that, if he were found guilty, he should 
be committed to prison, and brought to condign punishment. Every body now 
considered the primate as lost; and his old friends, from interested views, as well 
as the opposite party from animosity, began to show him marks of neglect and dis¬ 
regard. He was obliged to stand several hours among the lacqueys at the door of 
the council-chamber before he could be admitted ; and when he was at last called 
in, he was told, that they had determined to send him to the Tower. Cranmer 
said, that he appealed to the king himself; and finding his appeal disregarded, he 
produced a ring, which Henry had given him as a pledge of favour and protection. 
The council were confounded ; and when they came before the king, he reproved 
them in the severest terms, and told them that he was well acquainted with Cran- 
mer’s merit, as well as with their malignity and envy : but he was determined to 
crush all their cabals, and to teach them, by the severest discipline, since gentle 
methods were ineffectual, a more dutiful concurrence in promoting his service. 
Norfolk, who was Cranmer’s capital enemy, apologised for their conduct, and said, 
that their only intention was to set the primate’s innocence in a full light, by 
bringing him to an open trial; and Henry obliged them all to embrace him as a 
sign of their cordial reconciliation. The mild temper of Cranmer rendered this 
agreement more sincere on his part, than is usual in such forced compliances. 

But though Henry’s favour for Cranmer rendered fruitless all accusations against 
him, his pride and peevishness, irritated by his declining state of health, impelled 
him to punish with fresh severity all others who presumed to entertain a different 
opinion from himself, particularly in the capital point of the real presence. Anne 
Ascue, a young woman of merit as well as beauty, who had great connections with 
the chief ladies at court, and with the queen herself, was accused of dogmatizing 
on that delicate article ; and Henry, instead of shewing indulgence to the weakness 
of her sex and age, was but the more provoked that a woman should dare to op¬ 
pose his theological sentiments. She was prevailed on by Bonner’s menaces to 
make a seeming recantation : but she qualified it with some reserves, which did not 
satisfy that zealous prelate. She was thrown into prison, and she there employed 
herself in composing prayers and discourses, by which she fortified her resolution 
to endure the utmost extremity rather than relinquish her religious principles. 
She even wrote to the king, and told him, that as to the Lord s suppei, she believed 








C12 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HUME. 

as much as Christ himself had said of it, and as much of his divine doctrine as the 
catholic church had required. But while she could not be brought to acknowledge 
an assent to the king’s explications, this declaration availed her nothing, and was 
rather regarded as a fresh insult. The chancellor Wriothesely, who had succeeded 
Audley, and who was much attached to the catholic party, was sent to examine her 
with regard to her patrons at court, and the great ladies who were in correspon¬ 
dence with her ; but she maintained a laudable fidelity to her friends, and would 
confess nothing. She was put to the torture in the most barbarous manner, and 
continued still resolute in preserving secrecy. Some authors add an extraordinary 
circumstance : That the chancellor, who stood by, ordered the lieutenant of the 
Tower to stretch the rack still farther ; but that officer refused compliance. The 
chancellor menaced him, but met with a new refusal. Upon which that magistrate, 
who was otherwise a person of merit, but intoxicated with religious zeal, put his 
own hand to the rack, and drew it so violently that he almost tore her body 
asunder. Her constancy still surpassed the barbarity of her persecutors, and they 
found all their efforts to be baffled. She was then condemned to be burned alive ; 
and being so dislocated by the rack that she could not stand, she was carried to 
the stake in a chair. Together with her were conducted Nicholas Belenian a priest, 
John Lassels of the king’s household, and John Adams a taylor, who had been con¬ 
demned for the same crime to the same punishment. They were all tied to the 
stake ; and in that dreadful situation the chancellor sent to inform them that their 
pardon was ready drawu and signed, and should instantly be given them, if they 
would merit it by a recantation. They only regarded this offer as a new ornament 
to their crown of martyrdom ; and they saw with tranquillity the executioner kindle 
the flames which consumed them. Wriothesely did not consider that this public 
and noted situation interested their honour the more to maintain a steady 
perseverance. 

Though the secrecy and fidelity of Ann Ascue saved the queen from this peril, 
that princess soon after fell into a new danger, from which she narrowly escaped. 
An ulcer had broken out in the king’s leg, which, added to his extreme corpulency, 
and his bad habit of body, began both to threaten his life, and to render him even 
more than usually peevish and passionate. The queen attended him with the most 
tender and dutiful care, and endeavoured by every soothing art and compliance, to 
allay those gusts of humour to which he was become so subject. His favourite 
topic of conversation was theology, and Catherine, whose good sense enabled her 
to discourse on any subject, was frequently engaged in the argument; and being 
secretly inclined to the principles of the reformers, she unwarily betrayed too much * 
of her mind on these occasions. Henry, highly provoked that she should presume 
to differ from him complained of her obstinacy to Gardiner, who gladly laid hold 
of the opportunity to inflame the quarrel. He praised the king’s anxious concern 
for preserving the orthodoxy of his subjects ; and represented, that the more elevated 
the person was who was chastised, and the more near to his person, the greater 
terror would the example strike into every one, and the more glorious would the 
sacrifice appear to posterity. The chancellor, being consulted, was engaged by re¬ 
ligious zeal to second these topics ; and Henry hurried on by his own impetuous 
temper, and encouraged by his counsellors, went so far as to order articles of im¬ 
peachment to be drawn up against his consort. Wriothesely executed his 
commands, and soon after brought the paper to him to be signed ; for as it was 
high-treason to throw slander upon the queen, he might otherwise have been 
questioned for his temerity. By some means this important paper fell into the 
hands of one of the queen’s friends, who immediately carried the intelligence to 
her. She was sensible of the extreme danger to which she was exposed ; but did 


/ 










HOME.] 


THE LAST DAYS OF HENRY VIII. 


613 


not despair of being able, by ber prudence and address, still to elude the efforts of 
her enemies. She paid her usual visit to the ting, and found him in a more serene 
disposition than she had reason to expect. He entered on the subject which was 
so familiar to him, and he seemed to challenge her to an argument iu divinity. 
She gently declined the conversation, and remarked that such profound speculations 
were ill suited to the natural imbecility of her sex. Women, she said, by their 
first creation, were made subject to men : the male was created after the image of 
God, the female after the image of the male : it belonged to the husband to choose 
principles for his wife ; the wufe’s duty was, in all cases, to adopt implicitly the 
sentiments of her husband. And as to herself, it was doubly her duty, being blest 
with a husband who was qualified by his judgment and learning not only to choose 
principles for his own family, but for the most wise and knowing of every nation. 
“Hot so ! by St. Mary,” replied the king ; “you are now become a doctor, Kate ; 
and better fitted to give than receive instruction.” She meekly replied, that she 
was sensible how little she was entitled to these praises ; that though she usually 
declined not any conversation, however sublime, when proposed by his majesty, she 
well knew, that her conceptions could serve to no other purpose than to give him 
a little momentary amusement ; that she found the conversation apt to languish, 
when not revived by some opposition, and she had ventured sometimes to feign a 
contrariety of sentiments, in order to give him the pleasure of refuting her ; and 
that she also purposed, by this innocent artifice, to engage him into topics whence 
she had observed by frequent experience that she reaped profit and instruction. 
“And is it so, sw r eetheart ? ” replied the king, “ then are we perfect friends again. 
He embraced her with great affection, and sent her away with assurances of his 
protection and kindness. Her enemies, who knew nothing of this sudden change 
prepared next day to convey her to the Towner, pursuant to the kings wanant. 
Henry and Catherine were conversing amicably in the garden when the chancellor 
appeared with forty of the pursuivants. The king spoke to him at some distance 
from her, and seemed to expostulate with him in the severest manner. She even 
overheard the appellations of knave , fool , and beast, , which he liberally bestowed 
upon that magistrate; and then ordered him to depart his presence. She after¬ 
wards interposed to mitigate his anger : he said to her, “ Poor soul ! you know not 
how ill entitled this man is to your good ofifices.” Thenceforth the queen having 
narrowly escaped so great a danger, was careful not to offend Henry’s humour by 
any contradiction ; and Gardiner, whose malice had endeavoured to widen the 
breach, could never afterwards regain his favour and good opinion. 

But Henry’s tyrannical disposition, soured by ill health, burst out soon after to 
the destruction of a man who possessed a much superior rank to that of Gardiner. 
The duke of Norfolk and his father, during this whole reign, and even a part of the 
foregoing, had been regarded as the greatest subjects m the kingdom and had 
rendered considerable service to the crown. The duke himself had in Ins youth 
acquired reputation by naval enterprises: he had much contributed to the vie oiy 
gained over the Scots at Flouden: he had suppressed a dangerous rebellion in the 
North : and he had always done his part with honour m all the expeditions against 
France Fortune seemed to conspire with his own industry, m raising him to the 
greatest elevation. From the favours heaped on him by the crown he ^ a red 
an immense estate : The king had successively been married to tw° 0 b 1 “ » 

and the king’s natural son, the duke of Richmond, had married his daughter. 
Besides his descent from the ancient family of the Moubrays, by which he was 
allied to the throne, he had espoused a daughter of the duke o* Buckingham w o 
wag descended by a female from Edward III.; And as he was behoved st. 1 to adh e 
secretly to the ancient religion, he was regarded, both abroad and at home, as the 








614 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[bume 

head of the catholic party. But all these circumstances, in proportion as they ex¬ 
alted the duke, provoked the jealousy of Henry ; and he foresaw danger, during his 
son’s minority, both to the public tranquillity and to the new ecclesiastical system, 
from the attempts of so potent a subject. But nothing tended more to expose 
Norfolk to the king’s displeasure, than the prejudices which Henry had entertained 
against the earl of Surrey, son of that nobleman. 

Surrey was a young man of the most promising hopes, and had distinguished 
himself by every accomplishment which became a scholar, a courtier, and a soldier. 
He excelled in all the military exercises which were then in request: he encouraged 
the fine arts by his patronage and example : he had made some successful attempts 
in poetry ; and being smitten with the romantic gallantry of the age, he celebrated 
the praises of his mistress, by his pen and his lance, in every masque and tourna¬ 
ment. His spirit and ambition were equal to his talents and his quality ; and he 
did not always regulate his conduct by the caution and reserve which his situation 
required. He had been left governor of Boulogne when that town was taken by Henry ; 
but though his personal bravery was unquestioned, he had been unfortunate in 
some rencounters with the French. The king somewhat displeased with his con¬ 
duct, had sent over Hertford to command in his place ; and Surrey was so impru¬ 
dent as to drop some menacing expressions against the ministers, on account of this 
affront which was put upon him. And as he had refused to marry Hertford’s 
daughter, and even waved every other proposal of marriage, Henry imagined that 
he had entertained views of espousing the lady Mary ; and he was instantly deter¬ 
mined to repress, by the most severe expedients, so dangerous an ambition. 

Actuated by all these motives, and perhaps influenced by that old disgust with 
which the ill conduct of Catherine Howard had inspired him against her whole 
family, he gave private orders to arrest Norfolk and Surrey; and they were on the 
same day confined in the Tower. Surrey being a commoner, his trial was the more 
expeditious ; and as to proofs, neither parliaments nor juries seem ever to have 
given the least attention to them in any cause of the crown during this whole reign. 
He was accused of entertaining in his family some Italians who were suspected to 
be spies ; a servant of his had paid a visit to cardinal Pole in Italy, whence he was 
suspected of holding a correspondence with that obnoxious prelate ; he had quar¬ 
tered the arms of Edward the Confessor on his scutcheon, which made him be sus¬ 
pected of aspiring to the crown, though both he and his ancestors had openly, 
during the course of many years, maintained that practice, and the heralds had 
even justified it by their authority. These were the crimes for which a jury, not* 
withstanding his eloquent and spirited defence, condemned the earl of Surrey for 
high treason ; and their sentence was soon after executed upon him. 

The innocence of the duke of Norfolk was still, if possible, more apparent than 
that of his son ; and his services to the crown had been greater. His dutchess 
with whom he lived on bad terms, had been so base as to carry intelligence to his 
enemies of all she knew against him : Elizabeth Holland, a mistress of his, had been 
equally subservient to the designs of the court. Yet with all these advantages his 
accusers discovered no greater crime than his once saying that the king was sickly, 
and could not hold out long; and the kingdom was likely to fall into disorders 5 
through the diversity of religious opinions. He wrote a pathetic letter to the king' 
pleading his past services, and protesting his innocence. Soon after, he embraced 
a more proper expedient for appeasing Plenry, by making a submission and con¬ 
fession, such as his enemies required : but nothing could molify the unrelenting 
temper of the king. He assembled a parliament, as the surest and most expedi¬ 
tious instrument of his tyranny ; and the house of peers, without examining the 
prisoner, without trial or evidence, passed a bill of attainder against him, and sent 












HUME.] 


THE LAST DATS OF HENRY VIII. 


615 


it down to tlie commons. Cranmer, though engaged for many years in an opposite 
party to Norfolk, and though he had received many and great injuries from him, 
would have no hand in so unjust a prosecution ; and he retired to his seat at 
Croydon. The king was now approaching fast towards his end ; and fearing lest 
Norfolk should escape him, he sent a message to the commons, by which he desired 
them to hasten the bill, on pretence that Norfolk enjoyed the dignity of earl mar¬ 
shal, and it was necessary to appoint another, who might officiate at the ensuing 
ceremony of installing his son prince of Wales. The obsequious commons obeyed 
his directions, though founded on so frivolous a pretence ; and the king, having 
affixed the royal assent to the bill by commissioners, issued orders for the execution 
of Norfolk on the morning of the twenty-ninth of January. But news being carried 
to the Tower, that the king himself had expired that night, the lieutenant deferred 
obeying the warrant j and it was not thought adviseable by the council to begin a 
new reign by the death of the greatest nobleman in the kingdom, who had been 
condemned by a sentence so unjust and tyrannical. 

The king’s health had long been in a declining state ; but for several days all 
those near him plainly saw his end approaching. He was become so froward, that 
no one durst inform him of his condition; and as some persons during this reign 
had suffered as traitors for foretelling the king’s death, every one was afraid lest in 
the transports of his fury he might, on this pretence, punish capitally the authoi 
of such friendly intelligence. At last Sir Anthony Denny ventured to disclose to 
him the fatal secret, and exhorted him to prepare for the fate which was awaiting 
him. He expressed his resignation ; and desired that Cranmer might be sent for. 
But before the prelate arrived he was speechless, though he still seemed to retain 
his senses. Cranmer desired him to give some sign of his dying in the faith of 
Christ: he squeezed the prelate’s hand, and immediately expired, after a reign of 
thirty-seven years and nine months ; and in the fifty-sixth year of his age. 

It is difficult to give a just summary of this prince’s qualities. He was so diffe¬ 
rent from himself in different parts of his reign, that, as is well remarked by lord 
Herbert his history is his best character and description. The absolute uncon¬ 
trolled authority which he maintained at home, and the regard which he acquired 
among foreign nations, are circumstances which entitle him in some degree to the 
annellation of a great prince; while his tyranny and barbarity exclude him from 
the character of a good one. He possessed, indeed, great vigour of mind, which 
oualified him for exercising dominion over men, courage, intrepidity, vigilance, in¬ 
flexibility : and though these qualities lay not. always under the guidance of a 
regular and solid judgment, they were accompanied with good parts and an exten¬ 
sive capacity ; and every one dreaded a contest with a man who was known never 
to yield or to forgive, and who, in every controversy was determined either to rum 
himself or his antagonist. A catalogue of his vices would comprehend many of the 
worst qualities incident to human nature : violence, cruelty, profusion rapacity, 
injustice, obstinacy, arrogance, bigotry, presumption, caprice : but neither was he 
subject to all these vices in the most extreme degree nor wits he at intervals alto- 
aether destitute of virtue : he was sincere, open gallant, liberal and capable at 
feast of a temporary friendship and attachment. In this respect he was unfortu¬ 
nate that the incidents of his reign served to display his faults in their full light: 
the treatment which he met with from the court of Rome provoked him to vio¬ 
lence • the danger of a revolt from his superstitious subjects, seemed to require the 
most extreme severity. But it must at the same time be acknowledged, that his 
^nation tended to throw an additional lustre on what was great and magnanimous 
in his character. The emulation between the emperor and the French king ren¬ 
dered h is alliance, notwithstanding his impolitic conduct, of great importance in 







616 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[HUME. 

Europe : tlie extensive powers of liis prerogative, and the submissive, not to say 
slavish disposition of his parliaments, made it the more easy for him to assume and 
maintain that entire dominion, by which his reign is so much distinguished in the 
English history. 

It may seem a little extraordinary, that notwithstanding his cruelty, his extor¬ 
tion, his violence, his arbitrary administration, this prince not only acquired the 
regard of his subjects, but never -was the object of their hatred : he seems even in 
some degree to have possessed to the last their love and affection. His exterior 
qualities were advantageous, and fit to captivate the multitude : his magnificence 
and personal bravery rendered him illustrious in vulgar eyes : and it may be said 
with truth, that the English in that age were so thoroughly subdued that like 
eastern slaves they were inclined to admire those acts of violence and tyranny 
which were exercised over themselves, and at their own expence. 


164.—CONDITION OF THE PEOPLE. 

From ‘ Strype’s Memorials.’ 

As we have given some character of the king, so here shall follow another of the 
people : of whom take this account, as it seems they were about the latter end of 
the king’s reign. Both the gentry and the clergy grew extreme covetous. As for 
the lay-sort, they fell to raising their old rents, turned their arable into pasture for 
grazing sheep, and enclosed commons, to the great oppression of the poor. This 
may be best understood by reading what one writes who lived in those days. 11 How 
do the rich men, and especially such as be sheep-mongers, oppress the king’s liege 
people, by devouring their common pastures with their sheep. So that the poor 
people are not able to keep a cow for the comfort of them and of their poor 
familyes, but are like to starve and perish for hunger, if there be not provisions 
made shortly. What sheep ground scapeth these caterpillars of the common weal. 
How swarm they with abundance of flocks of sheep ; and yet when was wool ever 
so dear, or mutton of so great price ? If these sheepmongers go forth as they 
begin, the people shall both miserably die for cold, and wretchedly perish for 
hunger. For these greedy wolves, and cumberous cormorants, will either sell their 
wool and their sheep at their own price, or else they will sell none. O ! what a 
diversity is this in the sale of wools ? A stone of wool sometime to be sold at 
eight groats, and now for eight shillings ; and so likewise of the sheep. God have 
mercy on us.” And a little after : “ Rich men were never so much estranged from 
all pity and compassion towards the poor people, as they be at this present time. 
They devour the people as it were a morsel of bread. If any piece of ground de¬ 
light their eye, they must needs have it, other by hook or by crook. If the poor 
man will not satisfy their covetous desires, he is sure to be molested, troubled and 
disquieted in such sort, that whether he will or not, (though both he, the careful 
wife, and miserable children with the whole family, perish for hunger), he shall 
forego it, or else it were as good for him to live among the furies of hell, as to dwell 
by those rich earlcs and covetous churles.” 

There was another evil these rich men were guilty of; namely, of depopulating 
towns, by letting houses and cottages fall down to the ground, or pulling them down. 
They got many houses and tenements into their hands, yea, whole townships some¬ 
times ; and then they would suffer them to go to utter decay and ruin : by which 
means whole towns became desolate, and like to a wilderness, no man dwelling 
there, except it were a shepherd and his dog. Insomuch, that the before-mentioned 
author said, “ That he himself knew many towns and villages sore decayed: so 



CONDITION OF THE PEOPLE. 


617 


btrype’s memorials.] 

that, whereas in times past, there were in some towns an hundred households, now 
there remained not thirty ; in some fifty, there were not then ten ; yea, which was 
more to be lamented, some towns so wholly decayed, that there was neither stick 
nor stone standing, as they use to say. Where many men had good livings, and 
maintained hospitality : able at all times to help the king in his w r ars, and to sus¬ 
tain other charges ; able also to help their poor neighbours, and vertuously to 
bring up their children in godly letters and good sciences, now sheep and conies 
devour altogether, no man inhabiting the foresaid places. So that, he addeth, 
those beasts which were bred of God for the nourishment of man, do now devour 
man. And since gentlemen began to be sheep-masters, and feeders of cattle, the 
poor had neither victual nor cloth at any reasonable price. For these forestalled 
of the market had gotten all things so into their hands, that the poor even must 
either buy it at their price, or else miserably starve for hunger, and die for cold. They 
abhorred the names of monks, friars, canons, nuns, &c.: but their goods they 
greedily griped. And yet, where the cloisters kept hospitality, let out their farmes 
at a reasonable price, nourished schools, brought up youth in good letters, they did 
none of all these things. They lightly esteemed, and in a manner contemned the 
priests, parsons, vicars, prebendaries, &c. Yet their possessions they gladly em¬ 
braced, and niggardly retained. So that now they were become in effect, saith he, 
though notin name, very monks, friars, canons, priests,parsons, vicars, prebendaries, 
and at the last, what not ? And yet how vainly those goods be spent, who 
seeth not ? ” 

As for the spiritual men, they affected mightily courtly living, and taking their 
pleasure ; little residence upon their benefices, and less hospitality. “ God com- 
mandeth, saith the same author, tythes to be paid; but for what cause ? That 
the ministers should spend them in the court, or at the university, or in keeping 
of hawks or dogs, or in maintaining a sort of idle, valiant lubbers, and do nothing 
but consume the good fruits of the earth ? Nay, verily, but that there should be 
meat in his house. For the parsonage, or vicarage, is God’s house.” The vast 
number of priests made them contemptible : for there were mass-priest, dirige- 
priests, chantry-priests, sacrificing-priests, as the author of the Defence of Priests 
Marriage reckons them up, and tells us, that Pighius in his Book of Controversies , 
complaining of the contempt of priests, attributes the same to the gieat swarm and 
multitude of them, over many. The great neglect of their parishes added also to 
their disrepute: for they made them only serve as means to accumulate wealth to 
themselves, without any conscience to discharge their duties thcie. Foi they foi 
the most part followed divers trades and occupations secular : some were surveyors 
of lands, some receivers, some stewards, some clerks of the kitchen, many gardeners, 
and orchyard-makers. And commonly this was the trade, the better benefice, and 
the cure the more, the seldomer was the parson or vicar resident at home. If they 
wanted now and then sermons to be preached in their churches, they got friars to 
do it for them. Or as the author above mentioned expressed it, “ If any of them 
thought for manners sake to have some sermons in their cures, they had friars at 
thcii°hand ready to supply such parts at their pleasure.” 








618 


HALF HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[SIR WALTER SCOTT. 


165.—BEGINNINGS OF THE REFORMATION IN SCOTLAND. 

Sir Waltep. Scott. 

James V. was nephew to Henry VIII. of England, being a son of Margaret, sister 
of that monarch. This connexion, and perhaps the policy of Henry, who was aware 
that it was better for both countries that they should remain at peace together, 
prevented for several years the renewal of the destructive wars between the two 
divisions of the island. The good understanding would probably have been still 
more complete, had it not been for the great and general change in religious matters, 
called in history the Reformation. I must give you some idea of the nature of this 
alteration, otherwise you cannot understand the consequences to which it led. 

After the death of our Blessed Saviour Jesus Christ, the doctrine which he 
preached was planted in Rome, the principal city of the great Roman empire, by the 
Apostle Peter, as it is said, whom the Catholics, therefore, term the first bishop of 
Rome. In process of time, the bishops of Rome, who succeeded, as they said, the 
apostle in his office, claimed an authority over all others in Christendom. Good 
and well-meaning persons, in their reverence for the religion which they had adopted, 
admitted these pretensions without much scrutiny. As the Christian religion was 
more widely received, the emperors and kings who embraced it, thought to distin¬ 
guish their piety by heaping benefits on the Church, and on the bishops of Rome in 
particular, who at length obtained great lands and demesnes as temporal princes ; 
while, in their character of clergymen, they assumed the title of Popes, and the full 
and exclusive authority over all other clergymen in the Christian world. As the 
people of those times were extremely ignorant, any little knowledge which remained 
was to be found among the clergy, who had some leisure to study ; while the laity, 
that is, all men who were not clergymen, learned little, excepting to till, fight, and 
feast. The Popes of Rome, having established themselves as heads of the Church, 
went on, by degrees, introducing into the simple and beautiful system delivered to 
us in the gospel, other doctrines, many of them inconsistent with, or contradictory 
of, pure Christianity, and all of them tending to extend the power of the priests 
over the minds and consciences of other men. It was not difficult for the popes to 
make these alterations. For as they asserted that they were the visible successors 
of Saint Peter, they pretended that they were as infallible as the apostle himself, 
and that all that they published in their ordinances, which they called Bulls, must 
be believed by all Christian men, as much as if the same had been enjoined in the 
holy Scripture itself. We shall notice two or three of these innovations. 

Some good men, in an early age of Christianity, had withdrawn from the world 
to worship God in desert and desolate places. They wrought for their bread, gave 
alms to the poor, spent their leisure in the exercise of devotion, and were justly 
respected. But by degrees, as well-meaning persons bestowed great sums to support 
associations of such holy men, bequeathed lands to the monasteries or convents in 
which they lived, and made them wealthy, the monks, as they were called, departed 
from the simplicity of their order, and neglected the virtues which they undertook 
to practise. Besides, by the extravagant endowments of these convents, great sums 
of money and large estates were employed in maintaining a useless set of men, who, 
under pretence of performing devotional exercises, withdrew themselves from the 
business of the world, and from all domestic duties. Hence, though there continued 
to be amongst the monks many good, pious, and learned men, idleness and luxury 
invaded many of the institutions, and corrupted both their doctrines and their 
morals. 

The worship also of saints, for which Scripture gives us no warrant whatever, was 




8IR WALTER SCOTT.] BEGINNINGS OF THE REFORMATION IN SCOTLAND. ( 19 

introduced in those ignorant times. It is natural we should respect the memory 
of any remarkably good man, and that we should value anything which has 
belonged to him. The error lay in carrying this natural veneration to extremity, 
in worshipping the relics of a saintly character, such as locks of hair, bones, articles 
of clothing, and other trumpery, and in believing that such things are capable of 
curing sickness, or of working other miracles shocking to common sense. Yet the 
Roman Church opened the way to this absurdity, and imputed to these relics, which 
were often a mere imposture, the power, which God alone possesses, of altering those 
laws of nature which his wisdom has appointed. The popes also encouraged and 
enjoined the worship of saints, that is, the souls of holy men deceased, as a sort of 
subordinate deities, whose intercession may avail us before the throne of God, 
although the gospel has expressly declared that our Lord Jesus Christ is our only 
mediator. And in virtue of this opinion, not only were the Virgin Mary, the 
apostles, and almost every other person mentioned in the gospels, erected by the 
Roman Catholics into the office of intercessors with the Deity, but numerous others, 
some of them mere names, who never existed as men, were canonized, as it was 
called, that is, declared by the pope to be saints, and had altars and churches dedi¬ 
cated to them. Pictures also and statues, representing these alleged holy persons, 
were exhibited in churches, and received the worship, which ought not, according 
to the second commandment, to be rendered to any idol or graven image. 

Other doctrines there were, about fasting on particular days, and abstaining from 
particular kinds of food, all of which were gradually introduced into the Roman 
Catholic faith, though contrary to the gospel. 

But the most important innovation, and that by which the priests made most 
money, was the belief, that the Church, or, in other words, the priest, had the power 
of pardoning such sins as were confessed to him, upon the culprit’s discharging 
f 'aeh penance as the priest imposed on him. Every person was, therefore, obliged 
to confess himself to. a priest, if he hoped to have his sins pardoned ; and the 
priest enjoined certain kinds of penance, more or less severe, according to the cir¬ 
cumstances of the offence. But, in general, these penances might be excused, pro¬ 
viding a corresponding sum of money were paid to the Church, which possessed 
thus a perpetual and most lucrative source of income, which was yet more increased 
by the belief in Purgatory. 

We have no right, from Scripture, to believe in the existence of any intermediate 
state betwixt that of happiness, which we call heaven, to which good men have 
access immediately after death, or that called hell, being the place of eternal pun¬ 
ishment, to which the wicked are consigned with the devil and his angels. But the 
Catholic priests imagined the intervention of an intermediate state, called purgatory. 
They supposed that many, or indeed that most people, were not of such piety as to 
deserve immediate admission into a state of eternal happiness, until they should 
have sustained a certain portion of punishment; but yet were not so wicked as to 
deserve instant and eternal condemnation. For the benefit of these, they invented 
the intermediate situation of purgatory, a place of punishment, to which almost 
every one, not doomed to hell itself, was consigned for a greater or less period, in 
proportion to his sins, before admission into a state of happiness. But here lay 
the stress of the doctrine. The power was in the Church to obtain pardon, by 
prayer, for the souls who were in purgatory, and to have the gates of that place of 
torture opened for their departure sooner than would otherwise have taken place. 
Men, therefore, whose consciences told them that they deserved a long abode in 
this place of punishment, left liberal sums to the Church to have prayers said for 
the behoof of their souls. Children, in like manner, procured masses, (that is, a 








620 : HALT-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

particular sort of devotional worship practised by Catholics) to be said for the souls 
of their deceased parents. Widows did the same for their departed husbands— 
husbands for their wives. All these masses and prayers could only be obtained by 
money, and all this money went to the priests. 

But the pope and his clergy carried the matter still farther : and not only sold, 
as they pretended, the forgiveness of heaven, to those who had committed sins, 
but also granted them (always for money) a liberty to break through the laws of 
God and the Church. These licences were called indulgences, because those who 
purchased them were indulged in the privilege of committing irregularities and 
vice, without being supposed answerable to the divine wrath. 

To support this extraordinary fabric of superstition, the pope assumed the most 
extensive powers, even to the length of depriving kings of their thrones, by his 
sentence of excommunication, which declared their subjects free from their oath of 
allegiance, and at liberty to rise up against their sovereign and put him to death. 
At other times the pope took it upon him to give the kingdoms of the excommu¬ 
nicated prince to some ambitious neighbour. The rule of the Church of Rome was 
as severe over inferior persons as over princes. If a layman read the Bible, he was 
accounted guilty of a great offence ; for the priests well knew that a perusal of the 
Sacred Scriptures would open men’s eyes to their extravagant pretensions. If an 
individual presumed to disbelieve any of the doctrines which the Church of Rome 
taught, or to entertain any which were inconsistent w T ith these doctrines, he was 
tried as a heretic, and subjected to the horrible punishment of being burnt alive ; 
and this penalty was inflicted without mercy for the slightest expressions approaching 
to what the papists called heresy. 

This extraordinary and tyrannical power over men’s consciences was usurped 
during those ages of European history which are called dark, because men were at 
that period without the light of learning and information. But the discovery of 
the art of printing began, in the fifteenth century, to open men’s minds. The 
Bible, which had been locked up in the hands of the clergy, then became common, 
and was generally read ; and wise and good men, in Germany and Switzerland, 
made it their study to expose the errors and corruptions of the See of Rome. The 
doctrine of saint-worship was shown to be idolatrous, that of pardons and indul¬ 
gences, a foul encouragement to vice ; that of purgatory, a cunning means of ex¬ 
torting money ; and the pretensions of the pope to infallibility, a blasphemous 
assumption of the attributes proper to God alone. These new opinions were termed 
the doctrines of the Reformers, and those who embraced them became gradually 
more and more numerous. The Roman Catholic priests attempted to defend the 
tenets of their Church by argument ; but as that was found difficult, they endea¬ 
voured, in most countries of Europe, to enforce them by violence. But the reformers 
found protection in various parts of Germany. Their numbers seemed to increase 
rather than diminish, and to promise a great revolution in the Christian world. 

Henry VIII.,.the king of England, was possessed of some learning, and had a 
great disposition to show it in this controversy. Being, in the earlier part of his 
reign, sincerely attached to the Church of Rome, he wrote a book in defence of its 
doctrines, against Martin Luther one of the principal reformers. The pope was so 
much gratified by this display of zeal, that he conferred on the king the appellation 
of Defender of the Faith ; a title which Henry’s successors continue to retain, 
although in a very different sense from that in which it was granted. 

Now Henry, you must know, was married to a very good princess, named Cath¬ 
erine, who was a daughter of the King of Spain, and sister to the emperor of 
Germany. She had been, in her youth, contracted to Henry’s elder brother Arthur • 


SIR W4 LTER SCOTT.] BEGINNINGS OF THE REFORMATION IN SCOTLAND. 621 

but that prince dying, and Henry becoming heir of the throne, his union with 
Catherine had taken place. They had lived long together, and Catherine had borne 
a daughter, Mary, who was the natural heir apparent of the English crown. Bub 
at length Henry VIII. fell deeply in love with a beautiful young woman, named 
Anne Boleyn, a maid of honour in the queen’s retinue, and he became extremely 
desirous to get rid of Queen Catherine, and marry this young lady. For this pur¬ 
pose he applied to the pope, in order to obtain a divorce from the good queen, 
under pretence of her having been contracted to his elder brother before he was 
married to her. This, he alleged, seemed to him like marrying his brother's wife, 
and therefore he desired that the pope would dissolve a marriage, which, as he 
alleged, gave much pain to his conscience. The truth was, that his conscience 
would have given him very little disturbance, had he not wanted to marry another, 
a younger and more beautiful woman. 

The pope would have, probably, been willing enough to gratify Henry’s desire, 
at least his predecessors had granted greater favours to men of less consequence ; 
but then Catherine was the sister of Charles V., who was at once emperor of Ger¬ 
many, and king of Spain, and one of the wisest, as well as the most powerful, princes 
in Christendom. The pope, who depended much on Charles’s assistance for checking 
the Reformation, dared not give him the great offence, which would have been 
occasioned by encouraging his sister’s divorce. His Holiness, therefore, evaded 
giving a precise answer to the king of England from day to day, week to week, and 
year to year. But this led to a danger which the pope had not foreseen. 

Henry VIII., a hot, fiery, and impatient prince as ever lived, finding that the 
pope was trifling with him, resolved to shake off his authority entirely. For this 
purpose he denied the authority of the pope in England, and declaied, that he 
himself was the only head of the English church, and that the bishop of Rome had 
nothing to do with him, or his dominions. Many of the bishops and clergymen of 
the English Church adopted the Reformed doctrines, and all disowned the supreme 
rule, hitherto ascribed to the pope. 

But the greatest blow to the papal authority was the dissolution of the monas¬ 
teries, or religious houses, as they were called. The king seized on the convents, 
and the lands granted for their endowment, and, distributing the wealth of the 
convents among the great men of his court, broke up foi evei those gi eat establish¬ 
ments, and placed an insurmountable obstacle in the way of the Catholic religion 
being restored, after the interest of so many persons had been concerned in its 

being excluded. . 

The motive of Henry VIII.’s conduct was by no means praiseworthy, but it pro¬ 
duced the most important and salutary consequences ; as England was for ever 
afterwards, except during the short reign of his eldest daughter, freed from all 
dependance upon the pope, and from the superstitious doctrines of the Roman 

Catholic religion. fTJ 

Now here, returning to Scottish history, you must understand that one of Henry s 

principal wishes was to prevail upon his nephew, the young king of Scotland, to 
make the same alteration of religion in his country, which had been introduced into 
England. Henry, if we can believe the Scottish historians, made James the most 
splendid offers, to induce him to follow this course. He proposed to give him the 
hand of his daughter Mary in marriage, and to create him duke of York; and, with 
a view to the establishment of a lasting peace between the countries, he earnestly 

desired a personal meeting with his nephew in the north of England 

There is reason to believe that James was, at one period, somewhat inclined to 
the Reformed doctrines ; at least, he encouraged a Scottish poet, called Sir David 






622 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

Lindsay of the Mount, and also the celebrated scholar, George Buchanan, in com¬ 
posing some severe satires against the corruptions of the Roman Catholic religion ; 
but the king was, notwithstanding, by no means disposed altogether to fall off from 
the Church of Rome. He dreaded the power of England, and the rough, violent, 
and boisterous manners of Henry, who disgusted his nephew by the imprudent 
violence with which he pressed him to imitate his steps. But, in particular, James 
found the necessity of adhering to the Roman Catholic faith, from the skill, intel¬ 
ligence, and learning of the clergy, which rendered them far more fit to hold offices 
of state, and to assist him in administering the public business, than the Scottish 
nobility, who were at once profoundly ignorant, and fierce, arrogant, and ambitious 
in the highest degree. 

The archbishop Beaton, and his nephew David Beaton, who was afterwards made 
a cardinal, rose high in James’s favour ; and, no doubt, the influence which they 
possessed over the king’s mind was exerted to prevent his following the example of 
his uncle Henry in religious affairs. 

The same influence might also induce him to seek an alliance with France, rather 
than with England ; for it was natural that the catholic clergy, with whom James 
advised, should discountenance, by every means in their power, any approaches to 
an intimate alliance with Henry, the mortal enemy of the Papal See. James V. ac¬ 
cordingly visited France, and obtained the hand of Magdalen, the daughter of 
Francis I., with a large portion. Much joy was expressed at the landing of this 
princess at Leith, and she was received with as great splendour and demonstration 
of welcome, as the poverty of the country would permit. But the young queen was 
in a bad state of health, and died within forty days of her marriage. 

After the death of this princess, the king, still inclining to the French alliance, 
married Mary of Guise, daughter of the Duke of Guise, thus connecting himself with 
a family, proud, ambitious, and attached, in the most bigoted degree, to the catholic 
cause. This connexion served, no doubt, to increase James’s disinclination to any 
changes in the established church. 

But whatever were the sentiments of the sovereign, those of the subjects were 
gradually tending more and more towards a reformation of religion. Scotland at 
this time possessed several men of learning who had studied abroad, and had there 
' earned and embraced the doctrines of the great, reformer Calvin. They brought 
with them, on their return, copies of the Holy Scripture, and could give a full ac¬ 
count of the controversy between the protestants, as they are now called, and the 
Roman Catholic church. Many among the Scots, both of higher and lower rank, 
became converts to the new faith. 

The Popish ministers and counsellors of the king ventured to have recourse to 
violence, in order to counteract these results. Several persons were seized upon, 
tried before the spiritual courts of the bishop of St. Andrews, and condemned to 
the flames. The modesty and decency with which these men behaved on their 
trials, and the patience with which they underwent the tortures of a cruel death, 
protesting at the same time their belief in the doctrines for which they had been 
condemned to the stake, made the strongest impression on the beholders, and in¬ 
creased the cofidence of those who had embraced the tenets of the reformers. 
Stricter and more cruel laws were made against heresy. Even the disputing tho 
power of the pope was punished with death ; yet the reformation seemed to gain 
ground in proportion to every effort to check it. 

The favours which the king extended to the Catholic clergy, led the Scottish 
ncbility to look upon them with jealousy, and increased their inclination towards 
the Protestant doctrines. The wealth of the abbeys and convents, also, tempted 


SIR WALTER SCOTT.] BEGINNINGS OF THE REFORMATION IN SCOTLAND. 623 

many of the nobles and gentry, who hoped to have a share of the church lands in 
case of these institutions being dissolved, as in England. And altho >gh there were 
doubtless, good men as well as bad among the monks, yet the indolent, and even 
debauched lives of many of the order, rendered them, generally, odious and con¬ 
temptible to the common people. 

——-- 

166.—EDWARD VI., AND THE ANNALS OF HIS REIGN. 

From the ‘ Penny Cyclopedia.’ 

Edward VI., the only son of Henry VIII. who survived him, was born at Hampton 
Court 12th October, 1537. His mother, queen Jane Seymour, died on the twelfth 
day after giving him birth. The child had three stepmothers in succession after 
this ; but he was probably not much an object of attention with any of them. Sir 
John Hayward, who has written the history of his life and reign with great fulness, 
says that he £ was brought up among nurses until he arrived to the age of six 
years.’ He was then committed to the care of Dr. (afterwards Sir Anthony) 
Cooke, and Mr. (afterwards Sir John) Cheke, the former of whom appears to have 
undertaken his instruction in philosophy and divinity, the latter in Greek and 
Latin. The prince made great proficiency under these able masters. Henry VIII. 
died at his palace at Westminster early in the morning of Friday the 28th of 
January, 1547 ; but it is remarkable that no announcement of his decease appears 
to have been made till Monday the 31st, although the parliament met and transacted 
business on the intervening Saturday. Edward, who was at Hatfield when the 
event happened, was brought thence in the first instance to the residence of his 
sister Elizabeth at Enfield, and from that place, on the 31st, to the Tower at 
London, where he was proclaimed the same day. The council now opened the will 
of the late king (executed on the 30th of December preceding), by which it was 
found that he had (according to the powers granted him by the acts 28 Hen. VIII. 
ch. 7, and 35 Hen. VIII. ch. 1) appointed sixteen persons under the name of exe¬ 
cutors, to exercise the powers of the government during the minority of his son. 
One of these, the king’s maternal uncle, Edward Seymour, earl of Hertford, was im¬ 
mediately elected by the rest their president, and either received from them in this 
character, or assumed of his own authority, the titles of governor of his majesty, 
lord protector of all his realms, and lieutenant-general of all his armies. He was 
also created duke of Somerset, and soon after took to himself the office of lord high 
treasurer, and was further honoured by being made earl marshal for life. About 
the same time his brother, Sir Thomas Seymour, was created Baron Seymour of 
Sudley, and appointed lord high admiral. The elevation of Somerset had been 
opposed by the lord chancellor Wriothsley (now earl of Southampton) ; but the 
protector in a few weeks got rid of his further interference by taking advantage of 
an informality into which the earl had fallen in the execution of his office of chan¬ 
cellor, and frightening him into a resignation both of the seals and of his seat in the 
executive council. 

The period of the administration of the protector Somerset forms the first of the 
two parts into which the reign of Edward VI. divides itself. The character of the 
protector has been the subject of much controversy; but opinions have differed 
rather as to the general estimate that is to be formed of him, or the balance of his 
merits and defects, than as to the particular qualities, good and bad, by which he 
was distinguished. It may be said to be admitted on all hands that he was a brave 
and able soldier, but certainly with no pretensions in that capacity to a humanity 
beyond his age; that as a statesman he was averse to measures of severity, and 









m 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[penny cyclo. 

fond of popular applause, but unstable, easily influenced by appeals either to his 
vanity or his fears, and without any fertility of resources, or political genius of a 
high order. It must be admitted also that he was both ambitious and rapacious 
in no ordinary degree. Add to all this, that with one of the two gieat paities that 
divided the country he had the merit, with the other the demerit, of being a pati on 
of the new opinions in religion—and it becomes easy to understand the opposite 
feelings with which he was regarded in his own time, and the contradictory repre¬ 
sentations that have been given of him by party writers since. 

One of the,first acts of his administration was an expedition into Scotland, under¬ 
taken with the object of compelling the government of that country to fulfil the 
treaty entered into with Henry VIII. in 1543 for the marriage of the young queen 
Mary to Edward. The Scottish forces were signally defeated by the English pro¬ 
tector at the battle of Pinkey, fought 10th September, 1547 ; but the state of 
politics, as bearing upon his personal interests in England, compelled Someiset to 
hasten back to the south without securing any of the advantages of his victory. 
He returned to Scotland in the summer of the following year ; but he wholly failed 
in attaining any of the objects of the war. .The young queen was conveyed to 
France ; and the ascendancy of the French or Catholic party in the Scottish 
go vernment was confirmed, and continued unbroken during all the rest of the leign 
of Edward. 

Meanwhile great changes were effected in the domestic state of England. The 
renunciation of the supremacy of the pope, the dissolution of the religious houses, 
and the qualified allowance of the reading of the Scriptures in English, were the 
principal alterations in religion that had been made up to the death of the late 
king. Only a few months before the close of the reign of Henry, protestants as 
well as catholics had been burned in Smithfield. Under Somerset and the new 
king measures were immediately taken to establish protestantism as the religion of' 
the state. Even before the meeting of parliament, the practice of reading the ser¬ 
vice in English was adopted in the royal chapel, and a visitation, appointed by the 
council, removed the images from the churches throughout the kingdom. Bishops 
Gardiner of Winchester and Bonner of London, who resisted these measures, were 
committed to the Fleet. The parliament met in November, when bills were passed 
allowing the cup to the laity, giving the nomination of bishops to the king, and 
enacting that all processes in the ecclesiastical courts should run in the king’s 
name. The statute of the Six Articles, commonly called the Bloody Statute, passed 
in 1539, was repealed, along with various other acts of the preceding reign for the 
regulation of religion. By the parliament of 1548 the use of the Book of Common 
Prayer was established, and all laws prohibiting spiritual persons to marry were 
declared void. At the same time an act was passed (2 and 3 Ed. VI. c. 19) abolish¬ 
ing the old laws against eating flesh on certain days, but still enforcing the observ¬ 
ance of the former practice by new penalties, £ the king’s majesty,’ says the pre¬ 
amble, ‘ considering that due and godly abstinence is a mean to virtue, and to 
subdue men’s bodies to their soul and spirit, and considering also specially that 
fishers, and men using the trade of living by fishing in the sea, may thereby the 
rather be set on work, and that by eating of fish much flesh shall be saved and 
increased.’ 

But Somerset’s path was now crossed by a new opponent, in the person of his 
own brother, Lord Seymour. That nobleman, equally ambitious with the protector, 
but of a much more violent and unscrupulous temper, is supposed to have, very 
soon after the king’s accession, formed the design of disputing the supreme power 
with his brother. It is said to have been a notice of his intrigues that suddenly 
recalled Somerset from Scotland after the battle of Pinkey. The crime of Seymour 





PENNY CYCLO.] EDWARD VI., AND THE ANNALS OF HIS REIGN. 625 

does not appear to have gone farther than caballing against his brother ; hut 
Somerset contrived to represent it as amounting to high treason. On this charge 
he was consigned to the Tower: a bill attainting him was brought into the Houso 
of Lords, and read a first time on the 25th of February, 1549 ; it was passed 
unanimously on the 27th. The accused was not heard in his own defence, nor 
were any witnesses examined against him ; the House proceeded simply on the 
assurance of his brother, and of other members of the council, that he was guilty. 
The bill was afterwards passed, with little hesitation, by the House of Commons ; 
it received the royal assent on the 14th of March ; and on the 20th Lord Seymour 
was beheaded on Tower-hill, with his last breath solemnly protesting his innocence. 

During the summer of this year the kingdom was disturbed by formidable insur¬ 
rections of the populace in Somerset, Lincoln, Kent, Essex, Suffolk, Devon, Corn¬ 
wall, and especially in Norfolk, where a tanner of the name of Kett opposed the 
government at the head of a body of 20,000 followers. The dearness of provisions, 
the lowness of wages, the enclosure of common fields, and in some places the 
abolition of the old religion, with its monasteries where the poor used to be fed, 
and its numerous ceremonies and holidays that used to gladden labour with so much 
relaxation and amusement, were the principal topics of the popular clamour. It is 
worth noticing that the agency of the press was on this occasion employed, probably 
for the first time, as an instrument of government. Holinshed records that ‘ while 
these wicked commotions and tumults, through the rage of the undiscreet commons, 
were thus raised in sundry parts of the realm, sundry wholesome and godly exhor¬ 
tations were published, to advertise them of their duty and to lay before them 
their heinous offences.’ Among them was a tract by Sir JohnChcke, entitled ‘The 
Hurt of Sedition, how grievous it is to a Commonwealth,’ which is a very able and 
vigorous piece of writing. It was found necessary however to call another force 
into operation : the insurgents were not put down without much fighting and 
bloodshed ; and many of the rebels were executed after*the suppression of the com¬ 
motions. The institution of lords lieutenants of counties arose out of these 
disturbances. 

A few months after these events brought Somerset’s domination to a close. His 
new enemy, John Dudley, formerly Viscount Lisie, and now Earl of Warwick, the 
son of that Dudley whose name is infamous in history for his oppressions in the 
reign of the seventh Henry, had probably been watching his opportunity, and care¬ 
fully maturing his designs against the protector, for a long time. It is supposed to 
have been through his dark and interested counsel that Somerset was chiefly im¬ 
pelled to take the course which he did against his brother ; Warwick’s object was 
to destroy both, and he probably counted that by the admiral’s death, and the part 
which the protector was made to take in it, he both removed one formidable rival, 
and struck a fatal blow at the character and reputation of another. He himself 
meanwhile had been industriously accumulating popularity and power. He had 
greatly distinguished himself at the battle of Piukey, and in other passages of the 
Scotch war ; and it had been chiefly by him that the late insurrection in Norfolk 
had been so effectually quelled. The energy which he showed on this occasion was 
contrasted by the enemies of the protector with what they represented as the 
feebleness of the latter, who had, they contended, encouraged the insurrection by 
the hesitation and reluctance which he manifested, on the first threatenings of it, 
to take the necessary measures for putting it down. The protector had. at this 
time incurred considerable odium by his lavish expenditure (out of the spoils, as it 
was said, of the church) on his new palace of Somerset House, and certain violations 
both of public and of private rights of which he was accused of having been guilty 








626 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [PENNY CYCLO. 

in procuring the space and the materials for that magnificent structure. A cry was 
also raised against him on account of a proposition he had made in the council for 
a peace with France on the condition of resigning Boulogne for a sum of money. 
In the beginning of October he learned that measures were about to be immediately 
taken against him. In fact Warwick aud his associates in the council had collected 
their armed retainers, and were now ready to employ force if other means should 
fail. They had retired from Hampton Court, where the king resided, and fixed 
themselves in Loudon, where they had contrived to obtain possession of the Tower. 
Somerset, on the first notice of their proceedings, carried off the king to Windsor 
Castle, and shut himself up there as if with the intention of holding out ; but he 
soon found himself nearly deserted by all; and after a few days the king himself 
was obliged to sanction the vote for his deposition passed by the majority of the 
council. On the 14th he was brought to London in custody, and sent to the Tower. 
From this moment Warwick, though without his title of protector, enjoyed his 
power. Somerset, reduced to insignificance by this usage, but especially by an 
abject submission which he made in the first moments of danger, was some time 
after this released from confinement, and was even allowed again to take his seat 
at the council-table ; but he either engaged in designs to regain his lost place, or 
"Warwick, now duke of Northumberland, and possessed almost of undivided power 
in the state, felt that he should not be quite secure so long as his old rival lived. 
An apparent reconciliation had been effected between the two, and ratified by the 
marriage of Warwick’s eldest son to Somerset’s daughter : but this connexion was 
no shelter to the overthrown protector : on the 1st of December, 1551, he was 
brought to trial before the high steward and a committee of the House of Lords, on 
charges both of high treason and of felony ; he was convicted of the latter crime, 
and was executed on Tower-Hill, the 22nd January, 1552. He met his death with 
great manliness, and the popular sympathy was deeply excited in his favour, both 
by the feeling that, with softie faults, he had fallen the victim of a much worse man 
Mian himself, and by the apprehension that in his destruction the great stay which 
;ad hitherto supported the Reformation in England was thrown down. 

Warwick however (although at his death, a few years after this, he declared that 
he had always been a Catholic) did not feel himself strong enough to take any 
measures openly in favour of the antient faith, opposed as he knew he would be 
in that course by the great mass of the nation. It is probable that he cared little 
which religion prevailed, so that he remained at the head of affairs. The govern¬ 
ment accordingly continued to be conducted in all respects nearly as it had heretofore 
been. In March, 1550, a peace had been concluded with France, one of the articles 
stipulating for the surrender of Boulogne, the support of which very proposition 
had been made the principal charge against Somerset a few months before. In the 
following July another treaty between the two countries was signed at Angers, by 
which it was agreed that the king of England should receive in marriage Elizabeth 
the daughter of the king of France. Meanwhile at home the matter of religion 
continued to be treated by the new government much as it had been by the old. 
No Roman Catholics were put to death during this reign, though many were fined 
imprisoned, and otherwise not capitally punished ; but on the 2nd of May, 1550 
an unfortunate fanatic, Joan Becher, commonly called Joan of Kent, was burnt for 
certain opinions considered to be neither Catholic nor Protestant, in conformity with 
a warrant extorted by Cranmer from the king about a year before ; and on the 2nd 
of May, 1551, an eminent surgeon, named Yon Pauis, of Dutch extraction, but 
resident in London, paid the same penalty for his adherence to a similar heresy. 
Bishop Bonner was deprived of his see in September, 1549 ; Gardiner, in January 


PENNY CYCLO.] EDWARD VI., AND THE ANNALS OF HIS REIGN. 627 

1551 ; and Day of Chichester, and Heath of Worcester, in October of the same- 
year. The forty-two articles of belief, afterwards reduced to thirty-three, were pro¬ 
mulgated in the early part of this year. 

In April, 1552, Edward was attacked by small-pox ; and, although he recovered 
from that disease, the debility in which it left him produced other complaints, 
which ere long began to assume an alarming appearance. By the beginning of the 
following year he was very ill. Northumberland now lost no time in arranging his 
plans for bringing the crown into his own family. In May his son Lord Guildford 
Dudley married the Lady Jane Grey, the eldest daughter of the duchess of Suffolk, 
who was herself the eldest daughter, by her second marriage with Charles Brandon, 
duke of Suffolk, of Mary Tudor, the ex-queen of France, and the daughter of Henry 
VII., upon whose descendants Henry VIII. had by his will settled the crown on 
failure of the lines of his son Edward and of his daughters Mary and Elizabeth. 
This settlement, it is to be remembered, had been made by Henry under the express 
authority of an act of parliament, which empowered him to dispose of the kingdom 
to whomsoever he chose, on failure of his three children. Northumberland now 
applied himself to induce Edward to make a new settlement excluding Mary and 
Elizabeth, who had both been declared illegitimate by parliament, and to nominate 
Lady Jane Grey (in whose favour her mother the duchess of Suffolk, still alive, 
agreed to renounce her claim) as his immediate successor. 

The interest of the Protestant religion, which it was argued would be more 
secure with a sovereign on the throne whose attachment to the principles of the 
Deformation -was undoubted, and upon whose birth there was no stain, than if the 
succession were left to be disputed between the king’s two sisters, one of whom was 
a bigoted Catholic, and the legitimacy of either of -whom almost implied the illegi¬ 
timacy of the other, is believed to have been the chief consideration that was urged 
upon the dying prince. Edward at all events was brought over to his minister’s 
views. On the 11th of June, Montague, the chief justice of the Common Pleas, 
and two of his brethren, were sent for to Greenwich, and desired to draw up a 
settlement of the crown upon the Lady Jane. After some hesitation they agreed, 
on the 14th, to comply with the king’s commands, on his assurance that a parlia¬ 
ment should be immediately called to ratify what was done. When the settlement 
was drawn up, an engagement to maintain it was subscribed by fifteen lords of the 
council and nine of the judges. Edward sunk rapidly after this, and lived only till 
the evening of the 6th of July, when he expired at Greenwich. His death, how¬ 
ever, was concealed for two days, and it was not till the 9th that Lady Jane Grey 
was proclaimed. 

Edward VI. is stated by the famous Jerome Cardan, who was brought to see 
him in his last illness, to have spoken both French and Latin with perfect readiness 
and propriety, and to have been also master of Greek, Italian, and Spanish. In his 
conversation with Cardan, which the latter has preserved, he showed an intelli¬ 
gence and dexterity which appear to have rather puzzled the philosopher. Walpole 
has set him down among his royal authors on the strength of his ‘Diary,’ printed 
by Burnet in his History of the Reformation, and the original of -which is still pre¬ 
served among the Cottonian manuscripts ; a lost comedy which is attributed to 
him; some Latin epistles and orations, of which specimens are given by Strype ; a 
translation into French of several passages of scripture, preserved in the library of 
Trinity College, Cambridge ; a tract in French against popery, entitled, ‘ L’En- 
contre desabus du monde and a few other productions of a similar kind which 
have not been printed. 

The act of the 1st Edward VI. gave to the king all the colleges, free-chapels, 
ebauntries hospitals, &c., which were not in the possession of his father by the 










628 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[PENNY CYCLa 

act passed in the 37th year of Henry's reign. This act was much abused ; for 
though one professed object of it was the encouragement of learning, many places 
of learning were actually suppressed under it. The king, however, afterwards 
founded a considerable number of grammar-schools, which still exist and are popu¬ 
larly known as King Edward’s Schools. 


167.—SONNETS. 

EDWARD VI. 

“ Sweet is the holiness of youth”—so felt 
Time-honoured Chaucer when he framed the lay 
By which the Prioress beguiled the way, 

And many a Pilgrim’s rugged heart did melt. 

Hadst thou, loved Bard ! whose spirit often dwelt 

In the clear land of vision, but foreseen 

King, child, and seraph, blended in the mien 

Of pious Edward kneeling as he knelt 

In meek and simple infancy, what joy 

For universal Christendom had thrilled 

Thy heart! What hopes inspired thy genius, skilled 

(0 great Precursor, genuine morning star) 

The lucid shafts of reason to employ, 

Piercing the Papal darkness from afar ! 


Wordsworth. 


REVIVAL OF POPERY. 

Melts into silent shades the youth, discrowned 
By unrelenting Death. 0 People keen 
For change, to whom the new looks always green ! 
They cast, they cast with joy upon the ground 
Their Gods of wood and stone ; and, at the sound 
Of counter-proclamation, now are seen, 

(Proud triumph is it for a sullen queen !) 

Lifting them up, the worship to confound 
Of the Most High. Again do they invoke 
The Creature, to the Creature glory give ; 

Again with frankincense the altars smoke 

Like those the Heathen served ; and mass is sung; 

And prayer, man’s rational prerogative, 

Runs through blind channels of an unknown tongus. 




PENNY CYCLO.] 


THE REIGN OF MARY. 


629 


168.—THE REIGN OF MARY. 

[Penny Cyclopjedia. 

• 

Mary I. Queen of England, was the daughter of Henry VIII., by his first wife 
Catherine of Aragon, and was born at Greenwich, on the 18th (Burnet says 19th) 
of February, 1516. She was the only one of several children borne by her mother 
that lived ; and on this account, according to Burnet, and because her father was 
then “ out of hopes of more children,” he in 1518 “declared his daughter princess 
of Wales, and sent her to Ludlow to hold her court there, and projected divers 
matches for her.” It was first settled that she should be mairied to the dauphin 
by a treaty with the king of France, dated 9th November, 1518, which however 
was soon after broken. Then it was arranged, 22nd June, 1522, that hei hand 
should be given to the emperor Charles V. On Charles declining to fulfil this 
bargain, some overtures of a Scottish marriage followed in September, lo24. 
Finally, in April, 1527, it was agreed that the princess should be given in marriage 
either to the French king Francis, or to his second son, the duke of Orleans; but 
before it was determined whether she should be married to the father or the son, 
the affair of her mother’s divorce, implying her own illegitimacy, came to be agitated, 

and stopped all match-making for some years. 

Mary was brought up from her infancy in a strong attachment to the antient 

religion under the care of her mother, and Margaret, countess of Salisbury, the 
effect of whose instructions was not impaired by the subsequent lessons of the 
learned Ludovicus Vives, who, though somewhat inclined to the reformed opinions, 
was appointed by Henry to be her Latin tutor. After her mother’s divorce, Mary 
was deprived of her title of princess of Wales, which was transferred to the princess 
Elizabeth soon after she came into the world ; and during all the time that Anne 
Boleyn lived, Mary, who clung to her mother’s cause and her own, remained m a 
state of estrangement from her father. In the mean time, according to Lord 
Herbert, negotiations for disposing of her in marriage were twice entered into by 
her near rektion the emperor, without her father’s consent having been asked ; m 
1533 he offered her to James V. of Scotland, and iti I5oo to her old suitor .ha 
dauphin. But immediately after the execution of Queen Anne m 1536 a reconcile^ 
meat took place between Henry and his eldest daughter, who with great 
was now prevailed upon to make a formal acknowledgement both of Henry s ecc 
siastical supremacy-—utterly refusing “the bishop of 

power and jurisdiction within this realm heretofore usurped —and of the nulhty 

of the marriage of her father and mother, which she declared was by God s law 

^d^TS^oeBtuouB and unlawful” (See the “ Confession of me, the Lady 

Mary ” as printed by Burnet, “ Hist. Ref.” from the original, all written with her 

own hand’’) By the new act of succession, however, passed this year, she was 

gMn, as wi as L sister Elizabeth, declared illegitimate and or ever ex chided 

from claiming the inheritance of the crown as the king s lawful hen by hneal 

dp<*rpnt While she was thus circumstanced, excluded, as 

expresses it “ by act of parliament from all claim to the succession except sue 1 as 

the kW sMl give her” by the powers reserved to him of nominating h.s own suc- 

cessoafter LCe of the issue of Queen Jane, or of any other queen whom he 
cessoi aitei ianuie or J nffhrpd to Don Louis, prince of Portugal, 

might afterwards marry, s e Wi f Cleves Meanwhile continuing to 








HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


630 


[penny cyclo. 


next after her brother Edward and his heirs, and any issue the king might have by 
his then wife Catherine Parr. 

Mary’s compliance with the innovations in religion in her father’s time had been 
dictated merely by fear or self-interest ; and when, after the accession of her 
brother, his ministers proceeded to place the whole doctrine, as well as discipline, 
of the national church upon a new foundation, she openly refused to go along with 
them ; nor could all their persuasions and threats, aided by those of her brother 
himself, move her from her ground. Full details of the various attempts that were 
made to prevail upon her may be found in Burnet’s “History,” and in King 
Edward’s “Journal.” Mention is made in the latter, under date of April, 1549, 
of a demand for the hand of the Lady Mary by the Duke of Brunswick, who was 
informed by the council that “ there was talk for her marriage with the infant of 
Portugal, which being determined, he should have answer.” About the same time 
it is noted that “ whereas the emperor’s ambassador desired leave, by letters 
patents, that my Lady Mary might have mass, it was denied him.” On the 18th 
of March of the following year, the king writes : “ The Lady Mary, my sister, came 
to me at Westminster, where, after salutations, she was called, with my council, 
into a chamber ; where was declared how long I had suffered her mass, in hope of 
her reconciliation, and how now being no hope, which I perceived by her letters, 
except I saw some short amendment, I could not bear it. She answered, that her 
soul was God’s, and her faith she would not change, nor dissemble her opinion with 
contrary doings. It was said, I constrained not her faith, but wished her not as a 
king to rule, but as a subject to obey ; and that her example might breed too much 
inconvenience.” In fact throughout this reign the princess Mary was the centre of 
the intrigues of the Catholic party, and the hope of her succession their main 
strength and support. In the summer of this same year a project was entered into 
by her friends at home and abroad for removing her from England, where her faith 
at least, if not her person, was probably supposed to be in some danger. On the 
29th of August, her brother writes : “ Certain pinnaces were prepared to see that 
there should be no conveyance over sea of the Lady Mary secretly done. Also 
appointed that the lord chancellor, lord chamberlain, the vice-chamberlain, and the 
secretary Petre should see by all means they could whether she used the mass ; and 
if she did, that the laws should be executed on her chaplains.” 

Mary’s firm adherence to the Roman faith finally induced Edward, under the 
interested advice of his minister Northumberland, to attempt at the close of his 
life to exclude her from the succession, and to make over the crown by will to the 
Lady Jane Grey, an act which was certainly without any shadow of legal force. 
Although Lady Jane however was actually proclaimed, scarcely any resistance was 
made to the accession of Mary, the commencement of whose reign accordingly is 
dated from the 6th of July, 1553, the day of her brother’s death. 

Mary was scarcely seated on the throne, when she proceeded to re-establish the 
ancient religion. In the course of the month of August, Bonner, Gardiner, and 
three other bishops, who had been deposed for nonconformity in the late reign 
were restored to their sees, and the mass began again to be celebrated in many 
churches. In the following month archbishop Cranmer and bishop Latimer were 
committed to the Tower; and in November the parliament passed an act repealing 
all the acts, nine in number, relating to religion, that had been passed in the late 
reign, and replacing the church in the same position in which it had stood at the 
death of Henry VIII. These measures, and the other indications given by the 
court of a determination to be completely reconciled with Rome, were followed by 
the insurrection, commonly known as that of Sir Thomas Wyatt, its principal 
leader, which broke out in the end of January, 1554, but was in a few days effectu- 



THE REIGN OF MARY. 


631 


PENNY CYCLO.] 

ally put down ; its suppression being signalised by the executions of the unfortunate 
Lady Jane Grey and her husband the Lord Guildford Dudley, of her father the duke 
of Suffolk, and finally, of Wyat himself. 

On the 25th of July, Mary was married in the cathedral church of Winchester 
to the prince of Spain, afterwards Fliilip II., the son of the emperor Chaile3 V. , 
and the reunion with Rome was speedily completed by a parliament which assembled 
in the beginning of November, and which passed acts repealing the attainder of 
Cardinal Pole, who immediately after arrived in England with the dignity of papal 
legate, restoring the authority of the pope, repealing all laws made against the see 
0 f°Rome since the 20th of Henry VIII., reviving the ancient statutes against heresy, 
and in short re-establishing the whole national system of religious policy as it had 
existed previous to the first innovations made by Henry VIII. By one of the acts 
of this session of parliament also Philip was authorised to take the title of king of 
England during the queen’s life. All these acts a] pear to have been passed with 
scarcely any debate or opposition in either house, except occasionally upon mere 

points of detail and form. . . ,, 

The remainder of the history of the reign of Mary is occupied chiefly with the 

sanguinary persecutions of the adherents to the reformed doctrines. The Protestant 
writers reckon that about two hundred and eighty victims perished at the stake, 
from the 4th of February, 1555, on which day John Rogers was burnt at Smithfie d, 
to the 10th of November, 1558, when the last auto-da-fe of the reign took place by 
the execution in the same manner of three men and two women at Colchester 
Dr Lin^ard admits that after expunging from the Protestant lists “ the names of 
all who°were condemned as felons or traitors, or who died peaceably in their beds, 
or who survived the publication of their martyrdom, or who would for their hetero¬ 
doxy have been sent to the stake by the reformed prelates themselves, had they been 
in possession of the power,” and making every other reasonable allowance, it will 
still be found “ that in the space of four years almost two hundred persons perished 
in the flames for religious opinion.” Am mg the most distinguished sufferers were 
Hooper bishop of Gloucester, Ferrar of St David’s, Latimer of Worcester Ridley of 
London, and Cranmer archbishop of Canterbury. Gardiner, bishop of Winchester 
and lord chancellor, was Mary’s chief minister till his death in November lo55 
after which the direction of affairs fell mostly into the hands of Cardinal Pole, who 
after Cranmer’s deposition was made archbishop of Canterbury ; but the notorious 
Bonner, Ridley’s successor in the see of London, has the credit of having been t e 
principal instigator of these atrocities, which, it may be remarked, so far from con¬ 
tributing to put down the reformed doctrines, appear to have had a greater effect in 
dismisting the nation with the restored church than all other causes together. 

At the same time that the new opinions m religion were thus attempted to be 
extinguished by committing the bodies of those who believed m them to the flames, 
the queen gave a further proof of the sincerity of her own faith by restoring to the 
church the tenths and first-fruits, with all the rectories glebe-lands and tithes that 
had been annexed to the crown in the times of her father and brother She al o 
re-established several of the old religious houses, and endowed them as liberally as 

he Tmed n both a of the country and of his wife, Philip left England, in the beginning 
of September, 1555, and continued absent for about a year and a half The bond 
however by which this marriage attached the English court to Spain and the Empire 
remained the same as ever; and when, after a short cessation of hostilities, war 
recommenced in the spring of 1557 between Spain and France, Mary was prevailed 
unoTto ioin the former against the latter power. The principal consequence of 
this step, 3 in so far as this country was concerned, was the loss of the only lemaming 





632 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [PENNY CYCLO. 

English continental possession, the town and territory of Calais, which surrendered 
to the duke of Guise, in January, 1558, after a siege of a few days. This event, 
which was regarded as a national disgrace worse than any mere loss, excited the 
bitterest feelings of dissatisfaction with the policy of the court; and Mary herself 
is said never to have recovered from the blow. Some ineffectual efforts were made 
to retaliate upon France by force of arms ; but at last negotiations for a peace 
between the three belligerent powers were opened at Cambray, in the midst of 
which queen Mary died, worn out with bodily and mental suffering, on the 17th of 
November, 1558, in the forty-third year of her age and the sixth of her reign. She 
is affirmed to have said- on her deathbed, that if her breast should be opened after 
her decease, Calais would be found to be written on her heart. Mary left no issue, 
and was succeeded on the throne by her half-sister Elizabeth. 


169.—THE DEATH OE LADY JANE GREY. 

Hume. 

[Lady Jane Grey, born in 1537, was of the blood royal of England, being the great-grand¬ 
daughter of Henry VII., whose daughter Mary married first Louis XII. of France, secondly 
Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, by whom she had a daughter, Frances Brandon, married 
to Henry Grey, Marquis of Dorset. Of this marriage Lady Jane Grey was the eldest daughter: 
there was no male issue. She was distinguished from childhood by her talents; and her 
acquirements were certainly, for her age, very unusual. Greek, Latin, Italian, and French, 
she spoke, and wrote with correctness and fluency; and she understood Hebrew, Chaldee 
and Arabic. Great beauty, sweetness of temper, piety, and skill in the usual female accom¬ 
plishments, combined to render her the delight of all, except her parents, whose severity 
would in modern times be termed brutal, yet did not alienate her willing obedience. Filial 
obedience proved her ruin. Her father, then created Duke of Suffolk, presuming on his own 
power and favour, and the declining health of Edward VI, undertook in concert with the 
powerful Duke of Northumberland to transfer the crown into their own line. With this view 
a marriage was concluded between Lady Jane Grey and Northumberland’s fourth son Lord 
Guilford Dudley, in May 1553 ; and Edward VI. was persuaded by his interested advisers 
to set aside the rights of his sisters Mary and Elizabeth, and his cousin Mary of Scotland ; 
and, in consideration of her eminent virtues and royal descent, to settle the crown upon Lady 
Jane Grey, or Dudley. The king died July 6th : and it was not until the 10th that this 
unfortunate lady even knew of the plot in which she was involved. She was very reluctant 
to accept the crown; but was at last overpersuaded by the importunities of her parents, and 
the entreaties of her husband, whom she tenderly loved. The two dukes had no party 
among the people ; and ten days placed Mary in undisputed possession of the throne. Lady 
Jane and her husband were confined in the Tower, apparently without intention of taking 
their lives in the first instance. But Wyat’s insurrection determined their fate.] 

The violent and sudden change of religion inspired the Protestants with great 
discontent ; and even affected indifferent spectators with concern, by the hardships 
to which so many individuals were on that account exposed. But the Spanish 
match was a point of more general concern, and diffused universal apprehensions 
for the liberty and independence of the nation. To obviate all clamour, the articles 
of marriage were drawn as favourable as possible for the interest and security, and 
even grandeur of England. It was agreed that though Philip should have the title 
of king, the administration should be entirely in the queen ; that no foreigner 
should be capable of enjoying any office in the kingdom ; that no innovation should 
be made in the English laws, customs, and privileges ; that Philip should not carry 
the queen abroad without her consent, nor any of her children without the consent 
of the nobility; that sixty thousand pounds a year should be settled as her jointure; 
that the male issue of this marriage should inherit, together with England, both 
Burgundy and the Low Countries; and that if Don Carlos, Philip’s son by hia 



HUME.] THE DEATH OF LADY JANE GREY. 633 

former marriage, should die and his line be extinct, the queen’s issue, whether male 
or female, should inherit Spain, Sicily, Milan, and all the other dominions of Philip. 
Such was the treaty of marriage signed by Count Egmont, and three other ambas¬ 
sadors sent over to England by the emperor. 

These articles, when published, gave no satisfaction to the nation : It was univer¬ 
sally said that the emperor, in order to get possession of England, would verbally 
agree to any terms ; and the greater advantage there appeared in the conditions 
which he granted, the more certainly might it be concluded that he had no serious 
intention of observing them : That the usual fraud and ambition of that monarch 
might assure the nation of such a conduct ; and his son Philip while he inherited 
these vices from his father, added to them tyranny, sullenness, pride, and barbarity, 
more dangerous vices of his own : That England would become a province, and a 
province to a kingdom, which usually exercised the most violent authority over all 
her dependent dominions : That the Netherlands, Milan, Sicily, Naples, groaned 
under the burthen of Spanish tyranny, and throughout all the new conquests in 
America there had been displayed scenes of unrelenting cruelty, hitherto unknown 
in the history of mankind : That the inquisition was a tribunal invented by that 
tyrannical nation ; and would infallibly, with all their other laws and institutions, 
be introduced into England : And that the divided sentiments of the people with 
regard to religion would subject multitudes to this iniquitous tribunal, and would 
reduce the whole nation to the most abject servitude. 

These complaints being diffused every where, prepared the people for a rebellion*, 
and had any foreign power given them encouragement, or any great man appeared 
to head them, the consequences might have proved fatal to the queen’s authority. 
But the king of France, though engaged in hostilities with the emperor, refused to 
concur in any proposal for an insurrection, lest he should afford Mary a pretence 
for declaring war against him. And the more prudent part of the nobility thought 
that as the evils of the Spanish alliance were only dreaded at a distance, matters 
were not yet fully prepared for a general revolt. Some persons, however, more 
turbulent than the rest, believed that it would be safer to prevent than to redress 
Grievances ; and they formed a conspiracy to rise in arms, and declare against the 
queen’s marriage with Philip. Sir Thomas Wyat proposed to raise Kent, Sir Peter 
Carew Devonshire ; and they engaged the Duke of Suffolk, by the hopes of recover¬ 
ing t he crown for the Lady Jane, to attempt raising the midland counties. Carew’s 
impatience or apprehensions engaged him to break the concert, and to rise in arms 
before the day appointed : He was soon suppressed by the Earl of Bedford, and 
constrained to fly into France. On this intelligence Suffolk, dreading an arrest, 
suddenly left the town, with his brothers Lord Thomas and Lord Leonard Gray ; 
and endeavoured to raise the people in the counties of Warwick and Leicester, where 
his interest lay ; but he was so closely pursued by the Earl of Huntingdon, at the 
head of 300 horse, that he was obliged to disperse his followers, and being discovered 
in his concealment, he was carried prisoner to London. Wyat was at first more 
successful in his attempt ; and having published a declaration at Maidstone in 
Kent against the queen’s evil counsellors, and against the Spanish match, without 
anv mention of religion, the people began to Hock to his standard. The Duke of 
Norfolk with Sir Henry Jernegan, was sent against him, at the head of the guards 
and some other troops, reinforced with 500 Londoners commanded by Bret: And 
he came within sight of the rebels at Rochester, where they had fixed their head¬ 
quarters Sir George Harper here pretended to desert from them ; but having 
secretly gained Bret, these two malcontents so wrought on the Londoners, that the 
whole body deserted to Wyat, and declared that they would not contribute to 




HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY 


634 


[hums. 


enslave their native country. Norfolk, dreading the contagion of the example, 
immediately retreated with his troops, and took shelter in the city. 

After this proof of the dispositions of the people, especially of the Londoners, 
who were mostly protestants, Wyat was encouraged to proceed : he led his forces to 
Southwark, where he required of the queen that she should put the Tower into his 
hands, should deliver four counsellors as hostages, and, in order to ensure the liberty 
of the nation, should immediately marry an Englishman, Finding that the bridge 
was secured against him, and that the city was overawed, he marched up to 
Kingston, where he passed the river with 4000 men ; and returning towards 
London, hoped to encourage his partisans, who had engaged to declare for him. 
He had imprudently wasted so much time at Southwark, and in his march from 
Kingston, that the critical season, on which all popular commotions depend, was 
entirely lost. Though he entered Westminster without resistance, his followers, 
fiuding that no person of note joined him, insensibly fell off, and he was at last 
seized near Temple-bar by sir Maurice Berkeley. Four hundred persons are said to 
have suffered for this rebellion. Four hundred more were conducted before the 
queen with ropes about their necks : and falling on their knees received a pardon 
and were dismissed. Wyat was condemned and executed. As it had been reported 
that, on his examination, he had accused the lady Elizabeth and the earl of Devon¬ 
shire as accomplices, he took care on the scaffold, before the whole people, fully to 
acquit them of having any share in his rebellion. 

The Lady Elizabeth had been, during some time, treated with great harshness by 
her sister ; and many studied instances of discouragement and disrespect had been 
practised against her. She was ordered to take place at court after the countess of 
Lenox and the duchess of Suffolk, as if she were not legitimate. Her friends were 
discountenanced on every occasion ; and while her virtues, which were now become 
eminent, drew to her the attendance of all the young nobility, and rendered her the 
favourite of the nation, the malevolence of the queen still discovered itself every 
day by fresh symptoms, and obliged the princess to retire into the country. Mary 
seized the opportunity of this rebellion ; and hoping to involve her sister in some 
appearance of guilt, sent for her under a strong guard, committed her to the Tower, 
and ordered her to be strictly examined by the council. But the public declaration 
made by Wyat rendered it impracticable to employ against her any false evidence 
which might have offered ; and the princess made so good a defence, that the queen 
found herself under a necessity of releasing her. In order to send her out of the 
kingdom, a marriage was offered her with the duke of Savoy ; and when she declined 
the proposal, she was committed to custody under a strong guard at Wodestoke. 
The earl of Devonshire, though equally innocent, was confined in Fotheringay 
castle. 

But this rebellion proved still more fatal to the lady Jane Grey, as well as to her 
husband. The duke of Suffolk’s guilt was imputed to her ; and though the rebels 
and malcontents seemed chiefly to rest their hopes on the lady Elizabeth and the 
earl of Devonshire, the queen, incapable of generosity or clemency, determined to 
remove every person from whom the least danger could be apprehended. Warning 
was given the lady Jane to prepare for death ; a doom which she had long expected, 
and which the innocence of her life, as well as the misfortunes to which she had 
been exposed, rendered nowise unwelcome to her. The queen’s zeal, under colour 
of tender mercy to the prisoner’s soul, induced her to send divines, who harassed 
her with perpetual disputation ; and even a reprieve for three days was granted her, 
in hopes that she would be persuaded during that time to pay, by a timely conver¬ 
sion, some regard to her eternal welfare. The lady Jane had presence of mind in 






THE DEATH OF LADY JANE GREY. 


635 


HOME.] 


those melancholy circumstances, not only to defend her religion by all the topics 
then in use, but also to write a letter to her sister in the Greek language ; in which, 
besides sending her a copy of the Scriptures in that tongue, she exhorted her to 
maintain, in every fortune, a like steady perseverance. On the day of her execution, 
her husband, lord Guilford desired permission to see her ; but she refused her con¬ 
sent, and informed him by a message, that the tenderness of their parting would 
overcome the fortitude of both, and would too much unbend their minds from that 
constancy which their approaching end required of them. Their separation, she 
said, would be only for a moment; and they would soon rejoin each other in a 
scene where their affections would be for ever united, and where death, disappoint¬ 
ment, and misfortunes, could no longer have access to them, or disturb their eternal 
felicity. 

It had been intended to execute the lady Jane and lord Guilford together on 
the same scaffold at Tower-hill ; but the council, dreading the compassion of the 
people for their youth, beauty, innocence, and noble birth, changed their orders, and 
gave directions that she should be beheaded within the verge of the Tower. She 
saw her husband led to execution ; and having given him from the window some 
token of her remembrance, she waited with tranquillity till her own appointed hour 
should bring her to a like fate. She even saw his headless body carried back in a 
cart ; and found herself more confirmed by the reports which she heard of the con¬ 
stancy of his end, than shaken by so tender and melancholy a spectacle. Sir John 
Gage, constable of the Tower, when he led her to execution, desired her to bestow 
on him some small present, which he might keep as a perpetual memorial of her. 
She gave him her table-book, on which she had just written three sentences on 
seeing her husband’s dead body ; one in Greek, another in Latin, a third in English. 
The purport of them was, that human justice was against his body, but divine 
mercy would be favourable to his soul; that if her fault deserved punishment, her 
youth at least, and her imprudence were worthy of excuse ; and that God and pos¬ 
terity, she trusted, would shew her favour. On the scaffold she made a speech to 
the bye-standers, in which the mildness of her disposition led her to take the blame 
wholly on herself, without uttering one complaint against the severity with which 
she had been treated. She said that her offence was not the having laid her hand 
upon the crown, but the not rejecting it with sufficient constancy. That she had 
less erred through ambition than through reverence to her parents, whom she had 
been taught to respect and obey. That she willingly received death as the only 
satisfaction which she could now make to the injured state ; and though her infringe¬ 
ment of the laws had been constrained, she would show, by her voluntary submis¬ 
sion to their sentence, that she was desirous to atone for that disobedience into 
which too much filial piety had betrayed her. That she had justly deserved this 
punishment for being made the instrument, though the unwilling instrument, of 
the ambition of others ; and that the story of her life, she hoped, might at least 
be useful, by proving that innocence excuses not great misdeeds, if they tend any¬ 
wise to the destruction of the commonwealth. After uttering these words, she 
caused herself to be disrobed by her women ; and with a steady serene countenance, 
submitted herself to the executioner. 


170.—THE PROTESTANT MARTYRS. 

Goldsmith. 

The enemies of the state being thus suppressed, the theatre was now opened 
for the pretended enemies of religion. The queen, being ficed from appiehensions 
of an insurrection, began by assembling a parliament, which upon this, as upon 





636 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [GOLDSMITH. 

most occasions, seemed only met to give countenance to her various severities. 
The nobles, whose only religion was that of the prince who governed, were easily 
gained over ; and the house of commons had long been passive under all the 
variations of regal caprice. But a new enemy had started up against the reformers, 
in the person of the king, who, though he took all possible care to conceal his 
aversion, yet secretly influenced the queen, and influenced all her proceedings. 
Philip had for some time been in England, and had used every endeavour to 
increase that share of power which had been allowed to him by parliament, but 
without effect. The queen, indeed, who loved him with a foolish fondness, that sat 
but ill on a person of her years and disagreeable person, endeavoured to please him 
by every concession she could make or procure . and finding herself incapable ol 
satisfying his ambition, she was not remiss in concurring ■with his zeal ; so that 
heretics began to be persecuted with inquisitorial severity. The old sanguinary 
laws were now revived ; orders were given that the bishops and priests who had 
married should be ejected ; that the mass should be restored ; that the pope’s 
authority should be established ; and that the church and its privileges, all but 
their goods and estates, should be put upon the same foundation on which they 
were before the commencement of the reformation. As the gentry and nobles had 
already divided the church lands among them, it was thought inconvenient, and 
indeed impossible, to make a restoration of these. 

At the head of those who drove such measures forward, but not in an equal 
degree, were Gardiner bishop of Winchester, and Cardinal Pole, who had lately 
arrived in England from the continent. Pole, who was nearly allied by birth to 
the royal family, had always conscientiously adhered to the Catholic religion, and 
had incurred Henry’s displeasure, not only by refusing his assent to his measures, 
but by writing against him. It was for this adherence that he -was cherished by 
the pope, and now sent over to England as legate from the holy see. Gardiner was 
a man of a very different character : his chief aim was to please the reigning 
prince, and he had already shewn many instances of his prudent conformity. He 
now perceived that the king and queen were for rigorous measures ; and he knew 
that it would be the best means of paying his court to them, even to outgo them 
in severity. Pole, who had never varied in his principles, declared in favour of 
toleration ; Gardiner, who had often changed, was for punishing those changes in 
others with the utmost rigour. However, he was 'too prudent to appear at the 
head of a persecution in person ; he therefore consigned that odious office to 
Bonner, bishop of London, a cruel, brutal, and ignorant man. 

This bloody scene began in 1555 by the martyrdom of Hooper, bishop of 
Gloucester, and Rogers, prebendary of St. Paul’s. They were examined by com¬ 
missioners appointed by the queen, with the chancellor at the head of them. It 
was expected that by their recantation they would bring those opinions into dis¬ 
repute which they had so long inculcated : but the persecutors were deceived 
they both continued stedfast in their belief ; and they were accordingly condemned 
to be burned, Rogers in Smithfield, and Hooper in his own diocese at Gloucester. 
Rogers, beside the care of his own preservation, lay under very powerful tempta¬ 
tions to deny his principles, and save his life ; for he had a wife whom he tenderly 
loved, and ten children ; but nothing could move his resolution. Such was his 
serenity after condemnation, that the jailors, we are told, waked him from a sound 
sleep on the approach of the hour appointed for his execution. He desired to see 
his wife before he died ; but Gardiner told him, that being a priest he could have 
no wife. When the faggots were placed around him, he seemed no way daunted at 
the preparation, but cried out, “I resign my life with joy, in testimony of the 
doctrine of Jesus I ” When Hooper was tied to the stake, a stool was set before 






GOLDSMITH.] THE PROTESTANT MARTYRS. 637 

him with the queen’s pardon upon it, in case he should recant ; but he ordered it 
to be removed, and prepared cheerfully to suffer his sentence, which was executed 
in its full severity. The fire, either from malice or neglect, had not been sufficiently 
kindled ; so that his legs and thighs w r ere first burned, and one of his hands 
dropped off, while with the other he continued to beat his breast. He was three 
quarters of an hour in torture, which he bore with inflexible constancy. 

Sanders and Taylor, two other clergymen, whose zeal had been distinguished in 
carrying on the reformation, were the next that suffered. Taylor was put into a 
pitch barrel ; and before the fire was kindled, a faggot from an unknown hand was 
thrown at his head, which made it stream with blood. Still, however, he continued 
undaunted, singing the thirty-first psalm in English ; which one of the spectators 
observing, struck him a blow on the side of the head, and commanded him to pray 
in Latin. Taylor continued a few minutes silent, and with his eyes steadfastly 
fixed upwards, when one of the guards, either through impatience or compassion, 
struck him down with his halberd, and thus happily put an end to his torments. 

The death of these only served to increase the savage appetite of the popish 
bishops and monks for fresh slaughter. Bonner, bloated at once with rage and 
luxury, let loose his vengeance without restraint, and seemed to take a pleasure in 
the pains of the unhappy'sufferers ; while the queen, by her letters, exhorted him 
to pursue the pious work without pity or interruption. Soon after, in obedience 
to her commands, Bidley, bishop of London, and the venerable Latimer, bishop of 
Worcester, were condemned together. Bidley had been one of the ablest champions 
for the reformation ; his piety, learning, and solidity of judgment, were admired by 
his friends, and dreaded by his enemies. The night before his execution, he invited 
the mayor of Oxford and his wife to see him ; and when he beheld them melted into 
tears, he himself appeared quite unmoved, inwardly supported and comforted in that 
hour of agony. When he w T as brought to the stake to be burnt, he found his old friend 
Latimer there before him. Of all the prelates of that age, Latimer was the most 
remarkable for his unaffected piety, and the simplicity of his manners. He had 
never learned to flatter in courts ; and his open rebuke was dreaded by all the 
great, who at that time too much deserved it. His sermons, which remain to this 
day, show that he was possessed both of learning and wit, and there is an air of 
sincerity running through them not to be found elsewhere. When Bidley began 
to comfort his ancient friend, Latimer, on his part, was as ready to return the kind 
office. “ Be of good cheer, brother,” cried he, “ we shall this day kindle such a 
torch in England, as, I trust in God, shall never be extinguished.” A furious bigot 
ascended to preach to them and the people ; Bidley gave a most serious attention 
to his discourse. No way distracted by the preparations about him, he heard him 
to the last, and then told him that he was ready to answer all that he had preached 
upon, if a short indulgence should be permitted : but this was refused him. At 
length fire was set to the pile : Latimer was soon out of pain ; but Bidley con¬ 
tinued to suffer much longer, his legs being consumed before the fire reached 

his vitals. 

One Thomas Hankes, when conducted to the stake, had agreed with his friends, 
that if he found the torture supportable he would make them a signal for that 
purpose in the midst of the flames. His zeal for the cause in which he suffered 
was so strong, that when the spectators thought him near expiring, by stretching 
out his arms he gave his friends the signal that the pain was not too great to be 
borne. This examide, with many others of the like constancy, encouraged multi¬ 
tudes not only to suffer, but even to aspire after martyrdom. 

But women seemed persecuted with as much severity even as men. A woman 
in Guernsey, condemned for heresy, was delivered of a child in the midst of the 












638 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [GOLDSMITH, 

flames. Some of the spectators humanely ran to snatch the infant from Ganger; 
but the magistrate, who was a papist, ordered it to be flung in again, and there 
it was consumed with the mother. 

Cranmcr’s death followed soon after, and struck the whole nation with horror. 
This prelate, whom we have seen acting so very conspicuous a part in the reforma¬ 
tion during the two preceding reigns, had been long detained a prisoner, in conse¬ 
quence of his imputed guilt in obstructing the queen’s succession to the crown, 
But it was now resolved to bring him to punishment; and, to give it all its malig¬ 
nity, the queen ordered that he should be punished for heresy rather than for 
treason. He was accordingly cited by the pope to stand his trial at Borne ; and 
though he was kept a prisoner at Oxford, yet, upon his not appearing, he was con¬ 
demned as contumacious. But his enemies were not satisfied with his tortures, 
without adding to them the poignancy of self-accusation. Persons were therefore 
employed to tempt him by flattery and insinuation, by giving him hopes of once 
more being received into favour, to sign his recantation, in which he acknowledged 
the doctrines of the papal supremacy and the real presence. His love of life pre¬ 
vailed. In an unguarded moment he was induced to sign this paper ; and now his 
enemies, as we are told of the devil, after having rendered him completely 
wretched, resolved to destroy him. But it was determined, before they led him out 
to execution, that they should try to induce him to make a recantation in the church 
before the people. The unfortunate prelate, either having a secret intimation of 
their designs, or having recovered the native vigour of his mind, entered the church 
prepared to surprise the whole audience with a contrary declaration. When lie 
had been placed in a conspicuous part of the church, a sermon was preached by 
Cole, provost of Eton, in which he magnified Cranmer’s conversion as the imme¬ 
diate work of heaven itself. He assured the archbishop, that nothing could have 
been so pleasing to God, the queen, or the people ; he comforted him, by intimating 
that, if he should suffer, numberless dirges and masses should be said for his soul; 
and that his own confession of faith would still more secure his soul from the 
pains of purgatory. During the whole rhapsody Cranmer expressed the utmost 
agony, anxiety, and internal agitation ; he lifted up his eyes to heaven, he shed a 
torrent of tears, and groaned with unutterable anguish. He uttered a prayer, filled 
with the most pathetic expressions of horror and remorse. He then said he was 
well apprised of his duty to his sovereign ; but that a superior duty, the duty 
which he owed his Maker, obliged him to declare that he had signed a paper con¬ 
trary to his conscience ; that he took this opportunity of atoning for his error by 
a sincere and open recantation ; he was willing, he said, to seal with his blood that 
doctrine, which he firmly believed to be communicated from heaven : and that, as 
his hand had erred by betraying his heart, it should undergo the first punishment 
The assembly, consisting chiefly of papists, who hoped to triumph in tho last words 
of such a convert, were equally confounded and incensed at this declaration. They 
called aloud to him to leave off dissembling ; and led him forward, amidst the 
insults and reproaches of his audience, to the stake at which Latimer and Kidley 
had suffered. He resolved to triumph over their insults by his constancy and for¬ 
titude : and the fire beginning to be kindled round him, he stretched forth his 
right hand, and held it in the flames till it was consumed, while he frequently 
cried out in the midst of his sufferings, “ That unworthy hand ! ” at the same 
time exhibiting no appearance of pain or disorder. When the fire attacked his 
body, he seemed to be quite insensible of his tortures; his mind was occupied 
wholly upon the hopes of a future reward. After his body was destroyed, his 
heart was found entire: an emblem of the constancy with which he suffered. 


PENNY CYCiiO.] 


THE REIGN OF ELIZABETH. 


639 


17].—THE REIGN OF ELIZABETH. 

Penny Cyclopedia. 

Elizabeth, Queen of England, the daughter of Henry VIII. by his second wife, 
Anne Boleyn, was born at Greenwich, 7th September, 1533. She was not three 
years old therefore when her mother was brought to the block, in May, 1536. 
Very soon after her birth it was declared, by the Act 25 Henry VIII., c. 22, that if 
Queen Anne should decease without issue male, to be begotten of the body of the 
king, then the crown, on the death of the king, should go “ to the Lady Elizabeth, 
now princess, and to the heirs of her body lawfully begotten.” By this act, there¬ 
fore, Henry’s female issue by his present queen was placed in tho order of succession 
before the male issue he might have by any future wife. By the 28 Henry VIII., 
c. 7, however, passed after his marriage with Jane Seymour, his two former mar¬ 
riages were declared to be unlawful and void, and both Elizabeth and her elder 
sister Mary were bastardized. But finally, by the 35 Henry VIII., c. 1, passed soon 
after his marriage with his last wife, Catharine Parr, it was declared that if Prince 
Edward should die without heirs, then the crown should remain first to the Lady 
Mary, and, failing her, to the Lady Elizabeth. This was the last legal settlement 
of the crown, by which her position was affected, made previous to Elizabeth s 
accession ; unless, indeed, she might be considered to be excluded by implica¬ 
tion by the act 1 Mary, st. 2, c. 1, which legitimatized her sister Mary, declared the 
validity of Henry’s first marriage, and pronounced his divorce from Catherine of 
Aragon to be void. 

In 1535 a negotiation was entered into for the marriage of Elizabeth to the Duke 
of Angoul^me, the third son of Francis I. of France ; but it was broken off before 
any agreement was come to. In 1546 also Henry proposed to the Emperor Charles 
V., with the view of breaking off a match then contemplated between the emperor’s 
son, the Prince of Spain, afterwards Philip II., with a daughter of the French king, 
that Philip should marry the Princess Elizabeth ; but neither alliance took place. 
Elizabeth’s next suitor, though he does not seem to have formally declared his pie- 
tensions, was the protector Somerset’s unfortunate brother, the Lord Seymour of 
Sudley. ? He is said to have made some advances to her even before his marriage 
with Queen Catharine Parr, although Elizabeth was then only in her fourteenth 
year Catharine, who died a few months after her marriage (poisoned, as many 
supposed, by her husband), appears to have been made somewhat uncomfortable 
while she lived by the freedoms the princess continued to allow Sudley to 
take with her, which went beyond ordinary flirtation ; the scandal of the day indeed 
was that “ the Lady Elizabeth did bear some affection to the admiral.” After his 
wife’s death he was accused of having renewed his designs upon her hand ; and it 
was part of the charge on which he was attainted that he had plotted to seize t le 
king’s person, and to force the princess to marry him ; but his execution in the 
course of a few months stopped this and all his other ambitious schemes. 

In 1550 in the reign of Edward VI., it was proposed that Elizabeth should be 
married to the eldest son of Christian III. of Denmark ; but the negotiation seems 
to have been stopped by her refusal to consent to the match. She was a favourite 
with her brother, who used to call her his “ sweet sister Temperance ; but he was 
nevertheless prevailed upon by the artful and interested representations of Dudley, 
to pass over her, as well as Mary, in the settlement of the crown which he made by 

will a short time before his death. . _ . , 

Camden gives the following account of the situation and employments of Eliza¬ 
beth at this period of her life, in the introduction to his history ol her reign, felie 






* 610 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [PENNY CYC10. 

was both, he says, “ in great grace and favour with King Edward, her brother, as 
likewise in singular esteem with the nobility and people ; for she was of admirable 
beauty, and well deserving a crown, of a modest gravity, excellent wit, royal soul, 
happy memory, and indefatigably given to the study of learning ; insomuch, as 
before she was seventeen years of age she understood well the Latin, French 
and Italian tongues, and had an indifferent knowledge of the Greek. Neither did 
she neglect music, so far as it became a princess, being able to sing sweetly, and 
play handsomely on the lute. With Roger Ascham, whp was her tutor, she read 
over Melancthon’s Common-Places, all Tully, a great part of the histories of Titus 
Livius, certain select orations of Isocrates (whereof two she turned into Latin), 
Sophocles’s Tragedies, and the New Testament in Greek, by which means she both 
framed her tongue to a pure and elegant way of speaking,” &c. (English Transla¬ 

tions in Rennet's Collection.) 

It appears from what Ascham himself tells us in his “ Schoolmaster,” that Eliza¬ 
beth continued her Greek studies after she ascended the throne : “ After dinner,” 
(at Windsor Castle, 10th December, 1563), he says, “I went up to read with the 
Queen’s Majesty : we read there together in the Greek tongue, as I well remember, 
that noble oration of Demosthenes against AEschines for his false dealing in his 
embassage to King Philip of Macedonia. 

On the death of Edward, Camden says that an attempt was made by Dudley to 
induce Elizabeth to resign her title to the crown for a sum of money, and certain 
Zands to be settled on her : her reply was, “ that her elder sister, the Lady Mary, 
was first to be agreed withal; for as long as the said Lady Mary lived she, for her 
part, could challenge no right at all.” Burnett says that both she and Mary, having 
bf/en allured by messengers from Dudley, who no doubt wished to get them into his 
hands, were on their way to town, when the news of Edward’s approaching end in¬ 
duced them to turn back. When Mary came to London after being proclaimed 
queen, the Lady Elizabeth went to meet her with 500 horse, according to Camden, 
others say with 2000. Fox, the martyrologist, relates that “ Queen Mary, when she 
was first queen, before she was crowned, would go no whither, but would have her 
by the hand, and send for her to dinner and supper.” At Mary’s coronation, in 
October, 1553, according to Holinshed, as the queen rode through the city towards 
Westminster, the chariot in which she sat was followed by another “having a 
covering of cloth of silver, all white, and six horses trapped with the like, wherein 
sate the Lady Elizabeth and the Lady Anne of Cleve.” Another account says that 
Elizabeth carried the crown on this occasion. 

From this time Elizabeth, who had been brought np in their religion, became the 
hope of the Protestant party. Her position however w T as one of great difficulty. 
At first she refused to attend her sister to mass, endeavouring to soothe Mary by 
appealing to her compassion : after some time however she yielded an outward com¬ 
pliance. The Act passed by the parliament, which, although it did not mention 
her by name, bastardized her by implication, by annulling her father’s divorce from 
his first wife, could not fail to give her deep offence. Availing herself of an order 
of Mary, assigning her a rank below what her birth entitled her to, as an excuse for 
wishing to retire from court, she obtained leave to goto her house at Ashridge, in Buck¬ 
inghamshire, in the beginning of December. About the same time Mary is supposed 
to have been irritated against her sister by the preference showm for Elizabeth by her 
kinsman Edward Courtenay, whom, after releasing from the Tower, the queen had 
restored to his father’s title of earl of Devon, and is said to have had some thoughts 
of marrying. It appears to have been part of the design of the rash and unfor¬ 
tunate attempt of Wyat, in the beginning of the following year, to bring about a 
marriage between Elizabeth and Courtenay, who was one of those engaged in the 


PENNY CYCLO.] THE REIGN OF ELIZABETH. 641 

revolt. This affair involved Elizabeth in the greatest danger. On the 8th of 
Febiuary, the day after the suppression of the insurrection, certain members of the 
council were sent with a party of 250 (other accounts say 600) horse to Ashridge, 
with orders to bring her to London “ quick or dead.” They arrived during the 
night, and although they found her sick in bed, they immediately forced their way 
into her chamber, and informed her that she must “ prepare against the morning, 
at nine of the clock, to go with them, declaring that they had brought with them 
the queen’s litter for her.” She was so ill however that it was not till the fourth 
night that she reached Highgate. Here, says Fox, “she being very sick, tarried 
that night and the next day ; during which time of her abode there came many 
pursuivants and messengers from the court, but for what purpose I cannot tell.” 
W hen she entered London great multitudes of people came flocking about her litter, 
which she ordered to be opened to show herself. The city was at this time covered 
with gibbets ; fifteen had been erected in different places, on which fifty-two persons 
were hanged ; and it appears to have been the general belief that Elizabeth would 
suffer, as Lady Jane Grey had done a few days before. From the time of her arrival 
in town she was kept in close confinement in Whitehall. It appears that her case 
was twice debated in council ; and although no evidence had been obtained by all 
the exertions of the crown lawyers which went farther than to make it probable 
that Wyat and Courtenay had solicited her to give her assent to their projects of 
revolt, her immediate destruction was strongly advised by some of the members. 
Elizabeth long afterwards used to declare that she fully expected death, and that 
she knew her sister thirsted for her blood. It was at last determined however that 
for the present she should only be committed to the Tower, although she seems 
herself still to have been left in doubt as to her fate. She was conveyed to her 
prison by water on the morning of the 11th of March, being Palm Sunday, orders 
being issued that, in the mean time, “ every one should keep the church and carry 
their palms.” In attempting to shoot the bridge the boat was nearly swamped. 
She at first refused to land at the stairs leading to the Traitor’s Gate ; but one of 
the lords with her told her she should have no choice ; “ and becauss it did then 
rain,” continues Fox, “he offered to her his cloak, which she (putting it back with 
her hand with a a good dash) refused. So she coming out, having one foot upon 
the stair, said, “Here landeth as true a subject as ever landed at these stairs ; and 
before thee, 0 God, I speak it, having none other friends but thee alone.’ ” She 
remained in close custody for about a month, after which she was allowed to walk 
in a small garden within the walls of the fortress. On the 19 th of May she was 
removed, in charge of Sir Henry Bedingfield, to Woodstock. Here she was guarded 
with great strictness and severity by her new jailor. Camden says that at this 
time she received private letters both from Henry II. of France, inviting her to that 
country, and from Christian III. of Denmark (who had lately embraced the Protes¬ 
tant religion), soliciting her hand for his son Frederick. When these things came 
to the ears of her enemies, her life was again threatened. “ The Lady Elizabeth,” 
adds the historian, “ now guiding herself as a ship in blustering weather, both heard 
divine service after the Komish manner, and was frequently confessed ; and at the 
pressing instances and menaces of Cardinal Pole, professed herself, for fear of death, 
a Roman Catholic. Yet did not Queen Mary believe her.” She remained at Wood- 
stock till April, 1555, when she was, on the interposition, as it was made to appear, 
of King Philip, allowed to take up her residence at the royal palace of Hatfield, 
under the superintendence of a Catholic gentleman, Sir Thomas Pope, by whom she 
was treated with respect and kindness. Philip was anxious to have the credit of 
advising mild measures in regard to the princess, and perhaps he was really more 
disposed to treat her with indulgence than his wife. According to Camden, some 





642 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[FENNY CYCLO. 

of the Roman Catholic party wished to remove her to a distance from England, 
and to marry her to Emanuel Philibert, duke of Savoy ; but Philip opposed this 
scheme, designing her for his eldest son Charles (the unfortunate Don Carlos). 
Elizabeth also was herself averse to a marriage with the Savoyard. 

She continued to reside at Hatfield till the death of Mary, which took place on 
the 17th November, 1558. The news was communicated the same day, but not 
till after the lapse of some hours, to the House of Lords, which was sitting at the 
time. “ They were seized at first,” says Camden (or rather his translator), “ with a 
mighty grief and surprise, but soon wore off those impressions, and, with an hand¬ 
some mixture of joy and sorrow, upon the loss of a deceased and the prospect of a 
succeeding princess, they betook themselves to public business, and, with one con¬ 
sent, agreed that the Lady Elizabeth should be declared the true and lawful heir of 
the kingdom according to the act of succession made 35 Henry VIII.” It is pro¬ 
bable that Elizabeth’s outward compliance in the matter of religion had considerable 
effect in producing this unanimity, for the majority of the lords were Catholics, and 
certainly both the bishops and many of the lay peers would have been strongly in¬ 
clined to oppose her accession if they had expected that she would venture to dis¬ 
turb the established order of things. The members of the lower house were now 
called up, aDd informed of what had been done by Archbishop Heath, the chan¬ 
cellor. He concluded by saying that, since no doubt could or ought to be made of 
the Lady Elizabeth’s right of succession, the House of Peers only wanted their con¬ 
sent to proclaim her queen. A vote to that effect immediately passed by acclama¬ 
tion ; and, as soon as the houses rose, the proclamation took place. Elizabeth 
came to London on Wednesday, the 23rd : she was met by all the bishops in a 
body at Highgate, and escorted by an immense multitude of people of all ranks to 
the metropolis, where she took up her lodgings at the residence of Lord North, in 
the Charter House. On the afternoon of Monday the 28th she made a progress 
through the city in a chariot to the royal palace of the Tower: here she continued 
till Monday the 5th of December, on the morning of which day she removed by 
water to Somerset House. 

One of Elizabeth’s earliest acts of royalty, by which, as Camden remarks, she 
gave proof of a prudence above her years, was what we should now call the appoint¬ 
ment of her ministers. She retained of her privy council thirteen Catholics, who 
had been of that of her sister, including Heath, archbishop of York and lord chan¬ 
cellor ; William Paulett, marquis of Winchester, the lord high treasurer ; Edward, 
Lord Clinton, the lord high admiral ; and William, Lord Howard of Effingham, the 
lord chamberlain. But with these she associated seven others of her own religion, 
the most eminent of whom was the celebrated William Cecil, afterwards Lord 
Burleigh, whom she appointed to the office of secretary of state, which he had 
already held under Edward VI. Soon after, Nicholas Bacon (the father of the great 
chancellor) was added to the number of the privy councillors, and made at first lord 
privy seal, and next year lord keeper of the great seal, on the resignation of Arch¬ 
bishop Heath. Cecil became lord high treasurer on the death of the marquis of 
Winchester in 1572, and continued to be Eliazbeth’s principal adviser till his death 
in 1598, when he was succeeded by Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst (afterwards 
made earl of Dorset by James I.). Of the other persons who served as ministers 
during Elizabeth’s long reign, by far the most worthy of note were Sir Francis Wal- 
singham (who was principal secretary of state from 1573 till his death in 1590, and 
was all the time they were in office together the confidential friend and chief 
assistant of Cecil the premier, under whose patronage he had entered public life), 
and Burleigh’s son, Robert Cecil (afterwards earl of Salisbury), who succeeded Wal- 
eingham as secretary of state, and held that office till the end of the reign. Among 


PENNY CYCLO.] THE REIGN OF ELIZABETH. 6-13 

the other persons of ability that were employed in the course of the reign, in different 
capacities, may be mentioned Sir Nicholas Throckmorton ; “ a man,” says Camden, 
u °i a large experience, piercing judgment, and singular prudence, who discharged 
several embassies with a great deal of diligence and much to his praise, yet could 
he not be master of much wealth, nor rise higher than to those small dignities (though 
glorious in title) of chief cupbearer of England and chamberlain of the Exchequer; and 
this because he acted in favour of Leicester against Cecil, whose greatness he envied;” 
Sir Thomas Smith, the learned friend of Cheke, who had been one of the secretaries of 
state along with him under Edward VI., and held the same office again under Elizabeth 
for some years before his death, in 1577 ; and Sir Christopher Hatton, who was lord 
chancellor from 1587 till his death in 1591, and whom Camden, after having related 
his singular rise from being one of the band of gentleman pensioners, to which he 
was appointed by the queen, who was taken with his handsome shape and elegant 
dancing at a court masque, characterizes as (i a great patron of learning and good 
sense, and one that managed that weighty part of lord chancellor with that equity 
and clearness of principle as to be able to satisfy his conscience and the world too.” 

The affair to which Elizabeth first applied her attention on coming to the throne, 
and that in connexion with which all the transactions of her reign must be viewed, 
was the settlement of the national religion. The opinions of Cecil strongly con¬ 
curred with her own in favour of the reformed doctrines, to which also undoubtedly 
the great mass of the people was attached. For a short time however she kept her 
intentions a secret from the majority of the council, taking her measures in concert 
only with Cecil and the few others who might be said to form her cabinet. She 
began by giving permission, by proclamation, to read part of the church service in 
English, but at the same time strictly prohibited the addition of any comments, and 
all preaching on controversial points. This however was enough to show the Cath¬ 
olic party what was coming ; accordingly, at her coronation, on the 15th January, 
1559, the bishops in general refused to assist, and it was with difficulty that one of 
them, Oglethorp of Carlisle, was prevailed upon to set the crown on her head. 
The principal alterations were reserved to be made by the parliament, which met 
on the 25th of this month. Of the acts which were passed, one restored to the 
crown the jurisdiction established in the reign of Henry VIII. over the estate eccle¬ 
siastical and spiritual, and abolished all foreign powers repugnant to the same ; and 
another restored the use of King Edward’s book of common prayer, with certain 
alterations, that had been suggested by a royal commission over which Parker (after¬ 
wards archbishop of Canterbury) jtresided. In accordance with this last statute 
public worship began to be performed in English throughout the kingdom on Whit¬ 
sunday, which fell on the 8th of May; By a third act the first fruits and tenths of 
benefices were restored to the crown ; and by a fourth, her majesty was authorized, 
upon the avoidance of any archbishopric or bishopric, to take certain of the revenues 
into her ow T n hands ; and conveyances of the temporalities by the holder for a 
longer term than twenty-one years or three lives were made void. The effect of 
these laws was generally to restore the church to the state in which it was in the 
reign of Edward VI., the royal supremacy sufficing for such further necessary 
alterations as were not expressly provided for by statute. A strong opposition 
was made to the bills in the House of Lords by the bishops ; and fourteen of them, 
being the whole number, with the exception of Anthony, bishop of Llandaff, who, 
Camden says, “ was the scourge of his diocese,” were now deprived for refusing to 
take the oa,th of suj:>remacy. About 100 prebendaries, deans, archdeacons, and 
heads of colleges, were also ejected. The number of the inferior clergy however 
that held out was very small, amounting to no more than 80 rectors and other 
parochial ministers, out of between nine and ten thousand. On this subject it is 






044 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORl. [PENNY CYCLO, 

only necessary farther to state that the frame of ecclesiastical polity now set up, 
being in all essential particulars the same that still subsists, was zealously and 
steadily maintained by Elizabeth and her ministers to the end of her reign. The 
church of England has good reason to look upon her and Cecil as the true planters 
and rearers of its authority. They had soon to defend it against the Puritans on 
the one hand, as well as against the Catholics on the other ; and they yielded to 
the former a? little as to the latter. The Puritans had been growing in the country 
ever since the uawn of the Reformation ; but they first made their appearance in 
any considerable force in the parliament which met in 1570. At first their attempts 
were met on the part of the crown by evasive measures and slight checks ; but, in 
1587, on four-members of the House of Commons presenting to the house a bill for 
establishing a new Directory of public worship, Elizabeth at once gave orders that 
they should be seized and sent to the Tower, where they were kept some time. 
The High Commission Court also, which was established by a clause in one of the 
acts for the settlement of religion passed in the first year of her reign, was, occa¬ 
sionally at least, prompted. or permitted to exercise its authority in the punishment 
of what was called heresy, and in enforcing uniformity of worship with great strict¬ 
ness. The determination upon which the queen acted in these matters, as she 
expressed it in a letter to the archbishop of Canterbury, was, “that no man should 
be suffered to decline cither to the left or to the right hand, from the drawn line 
limited by authority, and by her laws and injunctions.” Besides the deprivation of 
their livings, which many of the clergy underwent for their refusal to comply with 
certain particulars of the established ritual, many other persons suffered imprison¬ 
ment for violations of the statute of uniformity. It was against the Catholics, how¬ 
ever, that the«most severe measures were taken. By an act passed in 1585 (the 
27 Eliz. c. 2) every Jesuit or other popish priest was commanded to depart from 
the realm within forty days, on pain of death as a traitor, and every person receiving 
or relieving any such priest was declared guilty of felony. Many priests were 
afterwards executed under this Act. 

It was the struggle with popery that moved and directed nearly the whole policy 
of the reign, foreign as well as domestic. When Elizabeth came to the throne, she 
found the country at peace with Spain, the head of which kingdom had been her 
predecessor’s husband, but at war with France, the great continental opponent of 
Spain and the Empire. Philip, with the view of preserving his English alliance, 
almost immediately after her accession, offered himself to Elizabeth in marriage ; 
but, after deliberating on the proposal, she determined upon declining it, swayed by 
various considerations, and especially, as it would appear, by the feeling that by 
consenting to marry her sister’s husband on a dispensation from the pope, she 
would in a manner be affirming the lawfulness of her father’s marriage with 
Catharine of Aragon, the widow of his brother Arthur, and condemning his subse¬ 
quent marriage with her own mother, the sole validity of which rested on the 
alleged illegality of that previous connexion. A general peace, however, compre¬ 
hending all the three powers, and also Scotland, was established in April, 1559, by 
the treaty of Cateau Cambresis. By this treaty it was agreed that Calais, which 
had been taken by France in the time of Queen Mary, and formed the only difficult 
subject of negotiation, should be restored to England in eight years, if no hostile 
act should be committed by Elizabeth within that period. Scarcely, however had 
this compact been signed, when the war was suddenly rekindled, in consequence of 
the assumption by the new French king, Francis II., of the arms and royal titles 
of England, in right, as was pretended, of his wife, the young Mary, queen of Scots. 
Elizabeth instantly resented this act of hostility by sending a body of 5000 troops 
to Scotland, to act there with the Duke of Chatelherault and the lords of the 


PENNY CYCLO.] 


THE REIGN OF ELIZABETH. 


645 


congregation, as the leaders of the Protestant party called themselves, against the 
government of the queen and her mother, the Regent, Mary of Guise. The town of 
Leith soon yielded to this force ; and the French king was speedily compelled both 
to renounce his wife’s pretensions to the English throne and to withdraw his own 
troops from Scotland, by the treaty of Edinburgh, executed 7th July, 1560. The 
treaty however never was ratified either by Francis or his queen ; and in conse¬ 
quence the relations between the three countries continued in an unsatisfactory 
state. Charles IX. succeeded his brother on the throne of France before the end of 
this year ; and in a few months afterwards Mary of Scotland returned to her own 
country. Meanwhile, although the two countries continued at peace, Elizabeth’s 
proceedings in regard to the church had wholly alienated Philip of Spain. The 
w T hole course of events and the position which she occupied had already in fact 
caused the English queen to be looked upon as the head of the Protestant interest 
throughout Europe as much as she was at home. When the dispute therefore 
between the Catholics and the Huguenots or reformed party in France came to a 
contest of arms, in 1562, the latter immediately applied for assistance to Elizabeth, 
who concluded a treaty with them, and sent them succour both in men and money. 
The war that followed produced no events of importance in so far as England was 
concerned, and was terminated by a treaty signed at Troyes, 11th April, 1564. 
A long period followed, during which England preserved in appearance the ordinary 
relations of peace both with France and Spain, though interferences repeatedly took 
place on each side that all but amounted to actual hostilities. The Protestants 
alike in Scotland, in France, and in the Netherlands (then subject to the dominion 
of Philip), regarded Elizabeth as firmly bound to their cause by her own inteiests ; 
and she on her part kept a watchful eye on the religious and political contentions of 
all these countries, with a view to the maintenance and support ol the Piotestant 
party, by every species of countenance and aid short of actually making vai in their 
behalf. With the Protestant government in Scotland, which had deposed and 
imprisoned the queen, she was in open and intimate alliance; in favoui of 
the French Huguenots she at one time negotiated or threatened, at another 
even went the length, scarcely with any concealment, of affoiding them pecu¬ 
niary assistance ; and when the people of the Netherlands at length lose in 
revolt against the oppressive government of Philip, although she refused the 
sovereignty of their country, which they offered to her, she lent them money, ^and 
in various other ways openly expressed her sympathy and good will. On the other 
hand, Philip, although he refrained from any declaration of war, and the usual 
intercourse both commercial and political long went on between the two countries 
without interruption, was incessant in his endeavours to undermine the throne of 
the English queen and the order of things at the head of which she stood, by insti¬ 
gating plots and commotions against her authority within her own dominions. He 
attempted to turn to account in this way the Catholic interest, which was still so 
powerful both in England and in Ireland—the intrigues of the Scottish queen and 
her partizans materially contributing to the same end. The history of Mary Stewart 
and of the affairs of Scotland during her reign and that of her son must be reser\ ed 
for a separate article. But it is necessary to observe here, that Mary was not 
merely the head of the Catholic party in Scotland, but as the descendant of the eldest 
daughter of Henry VII., had pretensions to the English crown which were of a very 
formidable kind. Although she was kept in confinement by the English government 
after her flight from the hands of her own subjects in 1568, the imprisonment of liei 
person did°not extinguish the hopes or put an end to the efforts of her adherents. 
Repeated rebellions in Ireland, in some instances openly aided by supplies from Spain 
_the attempt made by the duke of Alva in 1569, through the agency of V itelli, to 





646 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[PENNY CYCLO 

concert with the Catholic party the scheme of an invasion of England—the rising of 
the Catholics of the northern counties under the earls of Northumberland and 
Westmoreland the same year—the plot of the duke of Norfolk with Kidolfi in 1571, 
for which that unfortunate nobleman lost his head—the plots of Throgmorton and 
Creichton in 1584, and of Babington in 1586—to omit several minor attempts of 
the same kind—all testified the restless zeal with which the various enemies of 
the established order of things pursued their common end. Meanwhile, however, 
events were tending to a crisis which was to put an end to the outward show of 
friendship that had been so long kept up between parties that were not only fiercely 
hostile in their hearts, but had even been constantly working for each other’s over¬ 
throw behind the thin screen of their professions and courtesies. The queen of 
Scots was put to death in 1587, by an act of which it is easier to defend the state 
policy than either the justice or the legality. By this time also, although no actual 
declaration of war had yet proceeded either from England or Spain, the cause of 
the people of the Netherlands had been openly espoused by Elizabeth, whose general, 
the earl of Leicester, was now at the head of the troops of the United Provinces, as 
the revolted states called themselves. An English fleet at the same time attacked 
and ravaged the Spanish settlements in the West Indies. At last, in the summer 
of 1588, the great Spanish fleet, arrogantly styled the Invincible Armada, sailed for 
the invasion of England, and was in the greater part dashed to pieces on the coasts 
which it came to assail. From this time hostilities proceeded with more or less 
activity between the two countries during the remainder of the reign of Elizabeth. 
Meanwhile Henry III., and, after his assassination in 1589, the young king of 
Navarre, assuming the title of Henry IV., at the head of the Huguenots, had been 
maintaining a desperate contest in France with the duke of Guise and the League. 
For some years Elizabeth and Philip remained only spectators of the struggle ; but 
at length they were both drawn to take a principal part in it. The French war, 
however, in so far as Elizabeth was concerned, must be considered as only another 
appendage to the w r ar with Spain ; it was Philip chiefly, and not the League, that 
she opposed in France ; just as in the Netherlands, and formerly in Scotland, it was 
not the cause of liberty against despotism, or of revolted subjects against their 
legitimate sovereign, that she supported, or even the cause of Protestantism against 
Catholicism, but her own cause against Philip, her own right to the English throne 
against his, or that of the competitor with whom he took part. Since the death of 
Mary of Scotland, Philip professed to consider himself as the rightful king of England, 
partly on the ground of his descent from John of Gaunt, partly in consequence of 
Mary having by her will bequeathed her pretensions to him should her son persist 
in remaining a heretic. Henry IY. having previously embraced Catholicism, made 
peace with Philip by the treaty of Vervins, concluded in May, 1598 ; and the death 
of Philip followed in September of the same year. But the war between England 
and Spain was nevertheless still kept up. In 1601 Philip III. sent a force to 
Ireland, which landed in that country and took the town of Kinsale ; and the 
following year Elizabeth retaliated by fitting out a naval expedition against her 
adversary, which captured some rich prizes, and otherwise annoyed the Spaniard. 
Her forces continued to act in conjunction with those of the Seven United Provinces 
both bv sea and land. 

Elizabeth died on the 24th of March, 1603, in the 70th year of her age and the 
forty-fifth of her reign. 


FENNY CYCLO.] 


MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 


647 


172.—MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 


Penny Cyclopaedia. 


Mary Stuart, queen of Scotland, was born ontbe 7th. December, 1/542. She was* 
the third child of King James Y. of Scotland, by his wife Mary of Lorraine, daughter 
of the Duke of Guise, who had previously borne her husband two sons, both of 
whom died in infancy. A report prevailed that Mary too was not likely to live ; 
but being unswaddled by her nurse at the desire of her anxious mother, in presence 
of the English ambassador, the latter wrote to his court that she was as goodly a 
child as he had seen of her age. At the time of her birth her father lay sick in the 
palace of Falkland ; and in the course of a few days after, he expired, at the early 
age of thirty, his death being hastened by distress of mind, occasioned by the 
defeats which his nobles had sustained at Fala and Solway Moss. James was 
naturally a person of considerable energy and vigour both of mind and body, but 
previous to his death he fell into a state of listlessness and despondency, and. after 
his decease it was found that he had made no provision for the care of the infant 
princess, or for the administration of the government. The ambitious Bcatoun 
seized this opportunity, and producing a testament which he pretended was that of 
the late king, immediately assumed the office and title of regent. The fraud was 
soon discovered ; but by the haste and imprudence of the regent Arran and Henry 
VIII. of England, who wished a marriage agreed to between his son and the young 
queen Beatoun regained his influence in the country ; and on the 9th of September 
1543 ’Mary was crowned by the archbishop, who was also immediately afterwards 
appointed lord high chancellor of the kingdom. He had even the address to win 
over the regent Arran to his views, both political and religious; and thus the French 
or Roman Catholic party obtained the ascendancy. The first two years of Mary s 
life was spent at Linlithgow, in the royal palace of which she was born ; she was 
then removed to Stirling castle : and when the disputes of parties in the country 
rendered this a somewhat dangerous residence, she was carried to Inchmahome, a 
sequestered island in the Lake of Monteith, where she remained about two years. 
In the meantime a treaty of marriage had been concluded between her and the 
dauphin Francis ; and in terms of the treaty it was resolved she should be sent into 
France to be educated at the French court, until the nuptials could be solemnized. 
Accordingly in the fifth year of her age she was taken to Dumbarton where she 
was put on board the French fleet; and setting sail towards the end of July, 1548 
she was, after a tempestuous voyage, landed on the 14th of August at Brest whence 
she proceeded by easy stages to the palace at St. Germaine-en-Laye. At every 
town in her progress she was received with all the honours due to her royal ran , 
and as a male of respect and joy the prisons were thrown open and the prisoners 

Se Soon after her arrival at her destination, Mary was placed with the French king’s 
own daughters in one of the first convents of the kingdom, where she made such 
rapid progress in the acquisition of the literature and accomplishments of the age 
that when visiting her in the end of the year 1550, her mother Mary of Guise, with 
her Scottish attendants, burst into tears of joy. She did not however remain long 
in ^his situation. Perceiving the bent of her mind to the society and occupations 
of a nunnery which did not accord with the ambitious projects entei tamed by hev 
nudes of Lorraine, they soon brought her to the court, which, * Robertson oWes 
was one of the politest but most corrupt in Europe Here Maiy became the envy 
of her sex surpassing the most accomplished in the elegance and fluency o h 
language, the grace and liveliness of her movements, and the charm of her whole 






648 KALF-HOURS OP ENGLISH HISTORY. [PENNY CYCLO. 

manner and behaviour. The youthful Francis, to whom she was betrothed, and was 
soon to be united in wedlock, was about her own age, and they had been playmates 
from early years : there appears also to have grown up a mutual affection between 
them ; but the dauphin had little of her vivacity, and was altogether considerably 
her inferior both in mental endowments and personal appearance. The marriage, 
which took place on the 24th of April, 1558, was celebrated with great'pomp ; and 
when the dauphin, taking a ring from his finger, presented it to the cardinal Bourbon, 
archbishop of Rouen, who, pronouncing the benediction, placed it on the finger of 
the lovely and youthful bride, the vaulted roof of the cathedral rung with the 
shouts and congratulations of the assembled multitude. 

The solemnities being over, the married pair retired to one of their princely 
retreats for the summer ; but that season was hardly gone when, a vacancy having 
occurred on the throne of England by the death of Queen Mary, claims were put 
forth on behalf of the queen of Scots through her grandmother, who was eldest 
daughter of King Henry VII. of England ; and notwithstanding Elizabeth had 
ascended the throne, and was, like her sister Mary (both daughters of Henry VIII.), 
queen both de facto and by the declaration of the parliament of England, yet this 
claim for the Scottish princess was made and continued to be urged with great 
pertinacity by her ambitious uncles the princes of Lorraine. On every occasion on 
which the dauphin and dauphiness appeared in public, they were ostentatiously 
greeted as the king and queen of England ; the English arms were engraved upon 
their plate, embroidered on their banners, and painted oil their furniture ; and 
Mary’s own favourite device at the time was, the two crowns of France and 
Scotland, with the motto Aliamque moratur , meaning that of England. Henri II. 
died in July, 1559, and in September of the same year Francis was solemnly 
crowned at Rheims. Mary was now at the height of her splendour ; it was doomed 
however to be only of short continuance. In June, 1560, her mother died; and 
in December of the same year, her husband, who had been wasting away for some 
months, expired. By this latter event, Catherine de’ Medici rose again into power 
in the French court, and Mary, who did not relish being second where she had been 
the first, immediately determined on quitting France and returning to her native 
country. The queen of England however interposed ; and because Mary would not 
abandon all claim to the English throne, refused to grant her a free passage, being 
moved to this piece of discourtesy not less perhaps by envy than by jealousy. 
Mary notwithstanding resolved to go, and at length, after repeated delays, still 
lingering on the soil where fortune had smiled upon her, she reached Calais. Here 
she bade adieu to her attendants, and sailed for Scotland ; but as long as the 
French coast remained in view, she continued involuntarily to exclaim, ‘ Farewell, 
France ' Farewell, beloved country !’ She landed at Leith on the 19th August, 
1561, in the 19th year of her age, and after an absence from Scotland of nearly 13 
years. She was now, in the language of Robertson, “ a stranger to her subjects, 
without experience, without allies, and almost without a friend.” 

A great change had taken place in Scotland since Mary was last in the country. 
The Roman Catholic religion was then supreme ; and under the direction of 
Cardinal Beatoun the Romish clergy displayed a fierceness of intolerance which 
seemed to aim at nothing short of the utter extirpation of every seed of dissent and 
reform. The same causes however which gave strength to the ecclesiastics gave 
strength also, though more slowly, to the great body of the people ; and at length, 
after the repeated losses of Flodden and Fala, and Solway Moss and Pinkey,—• 
which, by the fall of nearly the whole lay nobility and leading men of the kingdom, 
brought all classed within the influence of public events,—the energies, physical and 
mental, of the entire nation were drawn out, and under the guidance of the reformer 



PENNY CYCLO.] MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 649 

Knox expended themselves with the fury of awakened indignation upon the whole 
fabric of the ancient religion. The work of destruction was just completed, and 
the Presbyterian government established on the ruins of the Roman Catholic, when 
Mary returned to her native land. She knew little of all this, and had been taught 
in France to shrink at the avowal of Protestant opinions : her habits and sentiments 
were therefore utterly at variance with those of her subjects ; and, nurtured in the lap 
of ease, she was wholly unprepared for the shock which was inevitably to result from 
her being thrown among them. 

Accordingly the very first Sunday after her arrival she commanded a solemn 
mass to be celebrated in the chapel of the palace ; and as might have been expected 
an uproar ensued, the servants of the chapel were insulted and abused, and had not 
some of the lay nobility of the Protestant party interposed, the riot might have 
become general. The next Sunday Knox had a thundering sermon against idolatry, 
and in his discourse he took occasion to say that a single mass was, in his estimation, 
more to be feared than ten thousand armed men. Upon this, Mary sent for the 
reformev, desiring to have an interview with him. The interview took place, as 
well as one or two subsequent ones from a like cause ; but the only result was to 
exhibit the parties more plainly at variance wuth each other. In one of these 
fruitless conferences the young queen was bathed in tears before his stern rebukes. 
Her youth however, her beauty and accomplishments, and her affability, interested 
many in her favour ; and as she had from the first continued the government in 
the hands of the Protestants, the general peace of the country remained unbroken. 

A remarkable proof of the popular favour which she had won, appeared in the 
circumstances attending her marriage with Darnley. Various proposals had been 
made to her from different quarters ; but at length she gave up all thoughts of a 
foreign alliance, and her affections became fixed on her cousin Henry Stuart, Lord 
Darnley, the youthful heir of the noble house of Lennox, to wkom she was united 
on Sunday, 29th July, 1565, the ceremony of marriage being performed in the 
chapel of Holyrood House, according to the rites of the Romish church. Whether 
the queen had any right to choose a husband without consent of Pailiament, was in 
that age, as Robertson observes, a matter of some dispute ; but that she had no 
Tight to confer upon him, by her private authority, the title and dignity of king, or 
by a simple proclamation invest him with the character of a sovereign, was beyond 
all doubt: yet so entirely did she possess the favourable regard of the nation, that 
notwithstanding the clamours of the malecontents, her conduct in this respect 
produced no symptom of general dissatisfaction. The queen’s marriage was parti¬ 
cularly obnoxious to Queen Elizabeth, whose jealous eye had never been withdrawn 
from her rival. Knox also did not look favourably on it. Nevertheless the current 
of popular opinion ran decidedly in Mary’s favour, and it was even remarked that 
the prosperous situation of her affairs began to work some change in favour of her 
religion. 

This popularity however w T as the result of adventitious circumstances only. 
There existed no real sympathy of opinion between Mary and the great body of her 
people ; and whatever led to the manifestation of her religious sentiments dissolved 
in the same degree the fascination which her other qualities had created.. It is in 
this way w r e may account for the assistance given to Darnley in the assassination of 

Rizzio_an attendant on Mary, wdio seems to have come in place of Chatelard. The 

latter was a French poet who sailed in Mary’s retinue when she came over from the 
Continent; and having gained the queen’s attention by his poetical effusions, he 
proceeded,’in the indulgence of a foolish attachment for her, to a boldness and 
audacity of behaviour which demanded at last the interposition of the law, and he 
was condemned and executed. Rizzio a Piedmontese by birth, came to Edinburgh 





650 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [PENNY CYOLO. 

in the train of the ambassador from Savoy, a year or so before Chatelard s execution. 
He was skilled in music, had a polished and ready wit, and, like Chatelard, wrote 
with ease in French and Italian. His first employment at court was in his character 
of a musician ; but Mary soon advanced him to be her French secretary ; and in 
this situation he was conceived to possess an influence over the queen which was 
equally hateful to Darnley and the Reformers, though on very diffeient grounds. 
Both therefore concurred in his destruction, and he was assassinated accordingly. 
Darnley afterwards disclaimed all concern in the conspiracy ; but it was plain the 
queen did not believe and could not forgive him ; and having but few qualities to 
secure her regard, her growing contempt of him terminated in disgust. In the 
meantime the well-known Earl of Bothwell was rapidly advancing in the queen s 
favour, and at length no business was concluded, no grace bestowed, without his 
assent and participation. Meanwhile also Mary bore a son to Darnley ; and after 
great preparations for the event, the baptism of the young prince was performed 
according to the rites of the Romish church. Darnley himself was soon after seized 
with the smallpox, or some dangerous distemper, the nature and cause of which 
are not very clear. He was at Glasgow when he was taken ill, having retired 
thither to his father somewhat hastily and unexpectedly ; Mary was not with him, 
nor did she visit him for a fortnight. After a short stay they returned to Edin¬ 
burgh together, when Darnley was lodged, not in the palace of Holyrood, as here¬ 
tofore, but in the house of Kirk of Field, a mansion standing by itself in an open 
and solitary part of the town. Ten days after, the house was blown up by 
gunpowder, and Darnley and his servants buried in the ruins. Whether Mary knew 
of the intended murder is not certain, and different views of the circumstances have 
been taken by different historians. The author of the horrid deed was Bothwell, 
and the public voice was unanimous in his reprobation. Bothwell was brought 
before the privy-council for the crime ; but in consequence of the shortness of the 
notice, Lennox, his accuser, did not appear. The trial nevertheless proceeded, or 
rather the verdict and sentence ; for without a single witness being examined, 
Bothwell was acquitted. He was upon this not only continued in all his influence 
and employments, but he actually attained the great end which he had in view by 
the perpetration of the foul act. This was no other than to marry the queen 
herself, which he did in three months after ; having in the interval, met the queen, 
and carried her off a prisoner to his castle of Dunbar, and also raised a process of 
divorce against the lady Bothwell, his wife, on the ground of consanguinity, and got 
a decree in the cause just nine days before the marriage. Before the marriage, 
also, Mary created Bothwell Duke of Orkney ; and the marriage itself was solemnized 
at Holyrood House by Adam Bothwell, Bishop of Orkney, according to the forms 
both of the Romish and Protestant religions. 

Public indignation could no longer be restrained. The nobles rose against Bothwell 
and Mary, who fled before an armed and indignant people from fortress to fortress. 
At length, after they had collected some followers, a pitched battle near Carbery 
Hill was about to ensue, when Mary abandoned Bothwell, and threw herself on the 
mercy of her subjects. They conducted her first to Edinburgh, and thence to the 
castle of Lochleven, where, as she still persisted to regard Bothwell as her husband, 
it was determined she should at once abdicate in favour of the prince, her son 
James. Instruments of abdication to that effect were accordingly prepared, and she 
was at last constrained to affix her signature to them ; upon which the prince was 
solemnly crowned at Stirling, 29th July, 1567, when little more than a year old. 
Mary continued a prisoner at Lochleven ; but by the aid of friends, in less than 
twelve months, she effected her escape, and collected a considerable army. The 
battle of Langside ensued, where she was completely routed; upon this she fled 


PENNY CYOLO.j MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. Ot)I 

towards Galloway, and thence passed into England, hoping to secure the favour of 
Elizabeth. In this however she was mistaken. Elizabeth refused her an audience, 
but declared her readiness to act as umpire between her and her subjects. Mary 
would not yield to this, or consent to be regarded in any other light than as queen 
of Scotland. The consequence was, that being now in the hands of her great rivai, 
Elizabeth contrived to detain her a captive in her dominions till the end of the 
year 1586,—a period of about nineteen years,—when she was accused ot being 
accessary to Babington’s conspiracy against the queen of England. 


173.—BABINGTON’S CONSPIRACY, AND EXECUTION 
OE MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

Goldsmith. 

John Ballard, a popish priest, who had been bred in the English seminary at 
Eheims. resolved to compass the death of a queen whom he considered"V?® 
enemy of his religion ; and, with that gloomy resolution, he came ovei to England 
in the disguise of a soldier, with the assumed name of captain Fortescue. He bent 
his endeavours to bring about at once the project of an assassination, an insuilec¬ 
tion and an invasion. The first person he addressed liimseli to was Anthony 
Babington, of Dethick, in the county of Derby, a young gentleman of good family, 
and nossessed of a very plentiful fortune. This person had been long remarkable 
fo. his zeal in the catholic cause, and his attachment to the captive queen. He 
therefore came readily into the plot, and procured the concurrence and assistan 
of some other associates in this dangerous undertaking ; Barnwell a person of a 
noble family in Ireland ; Charnock, a gentleman of Lancashire ; Abington, wnose 
father had been cofferer to the household; and, chief of all, John faavage a man of 

despierate fortune, who had^erved jn'tlie 

ir soke 

The next step w as t II T w+ers to her (by means of a brewer that 

this they effected by C01 ^^ ”' S thr h a ch i D k i n the wall of her apartment, 
supplied the family with ), o ^ for a foreign invasion, the plan 

In these, Babington m °^ e for her delivera nce, and the conspiracy for 

°f an noble gentlemen, as he termed them all of them 

assassinating the usurper y & catholic cause and 

f “a *“lr at —» » »"»• 

her majest) s service, gentlemen might expect 

replied, that she approved > « ^ f p wer to confer ; and that the death 

S££S “ «SSLa, f— .0 a, mm mm <m 

for her deliverance or the intended 1( ^ d nothing seemed so certain 

as its secresy and its sr • privy to it in every stage of its growth, 

and sagacious ministers f M b t ^ £ e( ^ ated guiIt was ripe for punishment 
and only retarded then disc y ded by 0 ne Maude, a catholic priest, 

and conviction. Ballard was actually^by^ ^ ^ ^ another of 

who was a .spy in ™ 1 insinuate himselT among the conspirators and to 

giv/an exact account*of their proceedings. Soon after, one Giffard, a priest, came 






652 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [GOLDSMITH. 

over, and, discovering the whole conspiracy to the bottom, made a tender of his 
service to Walsingham. It was he that procured the letters to be conveyed 
through the wall to the queen, and received her answers; but he had always taken 
care to shew them to the secretary of state, who had them deciphered, and took 
copies of them all.. 

The plot being thus ripe for execution, and the evidence against the conspirators 
incontestable, Walsingham resolved to suspend their punishment no longer. A 
warrant was accordingly issued out for the apprehending of Ballard ; and this 
giving the alarm to BaVngton and the rest of the conspirators, they covered thepi- 
selves with various disguises, and endeavoured to keep themselves concealed. But 
they were soon discovered, thrown into prison, and brought to trial. In their 
examination they contradicted each other, and the leaders were obliged to make a 
full confession of the truth. Fourteen were condemned and executed, some of 
whom died confessing their crime. 

The execution of these wretched men only prepared the way for one of still 
greater importance, in which a captive queen v T as to submit to the unjust decisions 
of those who had no right but that of power, to condemn her. Though all England 
was acquainted with the detection of Babington’s conspiracy, every avenue to the 
unfortunate Mary was so strictly guarded, that she remained in utter ignorance of 
the whole matter. But her astonishment was equal to her anguish, when Sir 
Thomas Gorges, by Elizabeth’s order, came to inform her of the fate of her unhapqy 
confederates. She was at that time mounted on horseback, going to hunt ; and 
was not permitted to return to her former place of abode, but conducted from one 
gentleman’s house to another, till she was lodged in Fotheringay castle, in Northamp¬ 
tonshire, where the last scene of her miserable tragedy was to be performed. 

The council of England was divided in opinion about the measures to be taken 
against the queen of Scots. Some members proposed that, as her health was very 
infirm, her life might be shortened by close confinement ; and the earl of Leicester 
advised that she should be despatched by poison ; but the majority insisted on her 
being put to death by legal process. Accordingly a commission was issued for 
forty-one peers, with five judges, or the major part of them, to try and pass sentence 
upon Mary "daughter and heir of James the Fifth, king of Scotland, commonly 
called queen of Scots, and dowager of France. 

Thirty-six of these commissioners, arriving at the castle of Fotheringay, presented 
her with a letter from Elizabeth, commanding her to submit to a trial for her late 
conspiracy. Mary perused the letter with great composure, and, as she had long 
foreseen the danger that hung over her, received the intelligence without emotion 
or astonishment. She said, however, that she wondered the queen of England 
should command her as a subject, who was an independent sovereign, and a queen 
like herself. She would never, she said, stoop to any condescension which would 
lessen her dignity, or prejudice the claims of her posterity. The laws of England 
she observed, were unknown to her ; she was destitute of counsel ; nor could she 
conceive who were to be her peers, as she had but one equal in the kingdom. She 
added, that, instead of enjoying the protection of the laws of England, which she 
had hoped to obtain, she had been confined in prison ever since her arrival in the 
kingdom, so that she derived neither benefit nor security from them. When the 
commissioners pressed her to submit to the queen’s pleasure, otherwise they would 
proceed against her as contumacious, she declared that she would rather suffer a 
thousand deaths than own herself a subject to any prince on earth : that, however, 
she was ready to vindicate herself in a full and free parliament;. as, for ought she 
knew, this meeting of commissioners was devised against her life on purpose to take 
it away with a pretext of justice. She exhorted them to consult their own con- 


GOLDSMITH.? EXECUTION OF MART QUEEN OF SCOTS. 653 

sciences, and to remember that the tneatre of the world was much more extensive 
than that of the kingdom of England. At length the vice-chamberlain Hatton 
vanquished her objections, by representing that she injured her reputation by 
avoiding a trial, in which her innocence might be proved to the satisfaction of ail 
mankind. This observation made such an impression upon her, that she agreed 
to plead, if they would admit and allow her protest, of disallowing all subjection. 
This, however they refused, but they satisfied her, by entering it upon record ; and 
thus they proceeded to a trial. 

The principal charge against her was urged by sergeant Gaudy, who accused her 
of knowing, approving, and consenting to, Babington’s conspiracy. This charge was 
supported by Babington’s confession, by the copies which were taken of their cor¬ 
respondence, in which her approbation of the queen’s murder was expressly declared; 
by the evidence of her own secretaries, Nan a Frenchman, and Curll a Scotchman, 
who swore that she received the letters of that conspirator, and that they had 
answered them by her orders. These allegations were corroborated by the testi- 
many of Ballard and Savage, to whom Babington had shown some letters, declaring 
them to have come from the captive queen. To these charges Mary made a sensible 
and resolute defence ; she said Babington’s confession was extorted by his fears of 
the torture, which was really the case : she alleged that the letters were forgeries, 
and she defied her secretaries to persist in their evidence, if brought into her 
presence. She owned, indeed, that she had used her best endeavours to recover her 
liberty, which was only pursuing the dictates of nature ; but as for harbouring a 
thought against the life of the queen, she treated the idea with horror. In a letter 
which was read during the trial, mention was made of the earl of Aiundel and his 
brothers. On hearing their names, she shed a flood of tears, exclaiming, Alas ! 
what hath the noble house of Howard endured for my sake ! ” She took occasion 
also to observe, that this letter might have been a base contrivance of W alsingham, 
who had frequently practised both against her life and that of her son. Walsingham, 
thus accused, rose up, and protested that his heart was free from malice , that he 
had never done anything unbecoming an honest man in his private capacity, nor 
aught unworthy of the place he occupied in the state. Mary declaied heiself 
satisfied of his innocence, and begged he would give as little credit to the malicious 
accusations of her enemies, as she now gave to the reports which she had heard to 
his prejudice. 

Whatever might have been the queen’s offences, it is certain that her treatment 
was very severe. She desired to be put in possession of such notes as she had 
taken preparative to her trial ; but this was refused her. She demanded a copy of 
her protest ; but her request was not complied with : she even required an advocate 
to plead her cause against so many learned lawyers as had undeitaken to uige her 
accusations ; but all her demands were rejected ; and, after an adjournment of soma 
days, sentence of death was pronounced against her in the Star-chamber in West¬ 
minster all the commissioners except two being present. At the same time a de¬ 
claration was published by the commissioners, implying, that the sentence against 
her did in no wise derogate from the title and honour of James, king of Scotland, 

son to the attainted queen. # 

Though the condemnation of a sovereign princess at a tribunal to which she owed 

no subjection, was an injustice that must strike the most inattentive, yet the par¬ 
liament of England did not fail to approve the sentence, and to go still farther, m 
presenting an address to the queen, desiring that it might speedily be put into 
execution! But Elizabeth still felt or pretended to feel, a horror for such precipitate 
severity. She entreated the two houses to find some expedient to save her from 
the necessity of taking a step so repugnant to her inclination. But at the same 






654 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [GOLDSMITH. 

time she seemed to dread another conspiracy to assassinate her within a month; which 
probably was only an artifice of her ministers to increase her apprehensions, and, 
consequently, her desire of being rid of a rival that had given her so much dis¬ 
turbance. The parliament, however, reiterated their solicitations, arguments, and 
entreaties ; and even remonstrated, that mercy to the queen of Scots was cruelty to 
them, her subjects, and her children. Elizabeth affected to continue inflexible, but 
at the same time permitted Mary’s sentence to be made public; and lord Buckhurst, 
and Beale, clerk to the council, were sent to the unhappy queen to apprise her of 
the sentence, and of the popular clamour for its speedy execution. 

Upon receiving this dreadful information, Mary seemed no way moved ; but 
insisted, that since her death was demanded by the protestants, she died a martyr 
to the catholic religion. She said, that as the English often embrued their hands 
in the blood of their own sovereigns, it was not to be wondered at that they exercised 
their cruelty towards her. She wrote her last letter to Elizabeth, not demanding 
her life, which she now seemed willing to part with, but desiring that, after her 
enemies should be satiated with her innocent blood, her body might be consigned 
to her servants, and conveyed to France, there to repose in a catholic country, 
with the sacred remains of her mother. 

In the mean time, accounts of this extraordinary sentence were spread into all 
parts of Europe ; and the king of France was among the foremost who attempted 
to avert the threatened blow. He sent over Believre as an extraordinary ambas¬ 
sador, with a professed intention of interceding for the life of Mary. But James 
of Scotland, her son, was, as in duty obliged, still more pressing in her behalf. He 
despatched Keith, a gentleman of his bed-chamber, with a letter to Elizabeth, con¬ 
juring her to spare the life of his parent, and mixing threats of vengeance in case 
of a refusal. Elizabeth treated his remonstrances with the utmost indignation ; 
and when the Scottish ambassador begged that the execution might be put off for a 
week, the queen answered with great emotion, “ No, not for an hour.” Thus Eliza¬ 
beth, when solicited by foreign princes to pardon the queen of Scots, seemed always 
disposed to proceed to extremities against her; but when her ministers urged her 
to strike the blow, her scruples and her reluctance seemed to return. 

Whether the queen was really sincere in her reluctance to execute Mary, is a 
question which, though usually given against her, I will not take upon me to deter¬ 
mine. Certainly there were great arts used by her courtiers to determine her to 
the side of severity, as they had everything to fear from the resentment of Mary, 
in case of her succeeding to the throne. Accordingly, the kingdom was now filled 
with rumours of plots, treasons, and insurrections ; and the queen was continually 
kept in alarm by fictitious dangers. She therefore appeared to be in great terror 
and perplexity ; she was observed to sit much alone, and to mutter to herself half, 
sentences, importing the difficulty and distress to which she was reduced. In this 
situation she one day called her secretary, Davidson, whom she ordered to draw out 
secretly the warrant for Mary’s execution, informing him, that she intended to keep 
it by her in case any attempt should be made for the delivery of that princess. 
She signed the warrant, and then commanded it to be carried to the chancellor to 
have the seal affixed to it. Next morning, however, she sent two gentlemen suc¬ 
cessively, to desire that Davidson would not go to the chancellor, until she should 
see him ; but the secretary telling her that the warrant had been already sealed 
she seemed displeased at his precipitation. Davidson, who probably wished to see 
the sentence executed, laid the affair before the council, who unanimously resolved 
that the warrant should be immediately put in execution, and promised to justify 
Davidson to the queen. Accordingly, the fatal instrument was delivered to Beale 
who summoned the noblemen to whom it was directed, namely, the earls of Shrews- 


GOLDSMITH.] 


EXECUTION OE MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 


65 5 


bury, Derby, Kent, and Cumberland ; and these together set out for Fotheringay 
castle, accompanied by two executioners, to despatch their bloody commission. 

Mary heard of the arrival of her executioners, who ordered her to prepare for 
death by eight o’clock the next morning. Without any alarm, she heard the death- 
warrant read with her usual composure, though she could not help expiessing her 
surprise, that the queen of England should consent to her execution. She even 
abjured'her being privy to any conspiracy against Elizabeth, by laying her hand 
upon a New Testament, which happened to lie on the table. She desired that her 
confessor might be permitted to attend her ; which, however, these zealots refused. 
After the earls had retired, she ate sparingly at supper, while she comforted her 
attendants (who continued weeping and lamenting the fate of their mistress) with 
a cheerful countenance, telling them they ought not to mourn, but to rejoice, at the ^ 
prospect of her speedy deliverance from a world of misery. Towards the end of 
supper, she called in all her servants, and drank to them ; they pledged her m 
order on their knees, and craved her pardon for any past neglect of duty. S re 
craved mutual forgiveness ; and a plentiful effusion of tears attended this *ast so emn 

SeP After this she reviewed her will, and perused the inventory of her effects. These 
she bequeathed to different individuals, and divided her money among her domes¬ 
tics, recommending them in letters to the king of France and the duke of Guise. 
Then <r 0 in^ to bed at her usual hour, she passed part of the night m uninterrupted 
repose" and, rising, spent the remainder in prayer and acts of devotion. Towards 
morning, she dressed herself in a rich habit of silk and velvet, the only one which 
she had reserved for this solemn occasion. Thomas Andrews, tne undei-shenff o 
the county then entering the room, informed her that the hour was come, and that 
h^must attend her to ?he place of execution. She reliedthat she was ready ; 
and bidding her servants farewell, she proceeded, supported b} two of her gua ^ 
and followed the sheriff with a serene composed aspect, with a long veil of lmen o 
her head and in her hand a crucifix of ivory. In passing through a hall adjoining 
to her chamber, Sir Andrew Melvil, master of her household, fell upon his knees, 
and shedding a flood of tears, lamented his misfortune m being doomed to carry 
, p f i-mlmrmv fate to Scotland. “Lament not, said she, but rather 

" W Mrv Stuart ^11 con be heed from all her cares. Tell my friends that I 
rejoice. Mary Stuart will soon affection and fidelity to Scotland and 

gieatly I have Cb . -> • -r i-,n Ve done nothing prejudicial to the 

Commend me to myuion an . persevere in amity and friendship 

state or the own part, do him faithful service. And 

* d S f revveU o^ce gain farewell, good Melvil, and grant the assistance 
so, good Melvil tareweii, o o „ j this p ] ac e she was received by 

of thy prayers to thy queen and thy mist • to allow Melvil, 

the four noblemen, who with great d.fficuty we e preva>lie 1 resentat her execu- 

ff lth he She h tCn™^d°^JSblTmen W and the sheriff going before, and Melvil hearing 

As soon as she was the ra ils, repeated a long 

Then Fletcher, dean of Pet ? ’forbear as she was firmly resolved to die in 

exhortation, which she ^® 11 ^ 1 crow ded’ with spectators, who beheld her with 

“d°%££* ber beauty, though dimmed by age and affliction, gleamed 









653 HALF HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [GOLDSMITH. 

through her sufferings, and was still remarkable in this fatal moment. The earl of 
Kent, observing that in her devotions she made frequent use of the crucifix, could 
not forbear reproving her, exhorting her to have Christ in her heart, not in her 
hand. She replied, with presence of mind, that it was difficult to hold such an 
object in her hand, without feeling her heart touched for the sufferings of him whom 
it represented. She now began, with the aid of her two women, to undress for the 
block ; and the executioner also lent his hand to assist them. She smiled, and said 
that she was not accustomed to undress herself before so large a company, or to be 
attended by such servants. Her women bursting into tears and loud exclamations 
of sorrow, she turned about to them, put her finger upon her lips, as a sign of im¬ 
posing silence upon them ; and having given them her blessing, desired their 
prayers in return. The two executioners kneeling, and asking her pardon, she said 
she forgave them, and all the authors of her death, as freely at> she hoped forgiveness 
of her Maker ; and once more made a solemn protestation of her innocence. Her 
eyes were then covered with a linen handkerchief; she laid herself down without 
any fear or trepidation, and wdien she had recited a psalm, and repeated a pious 
ejaculation, her head was severed from her body at two strokes. The executioner 
instantly held it up to the spectators, streaming with blood, and agitated with the 
convulsions of death. The dean of Peterborough alone exclaimed, “ So perish all 
queen Elizabeth’s enemies ! ” The earl of Kent replied Amen, while the rest of the 
spectators wept and sighed at this affecting spectacle ; for flattery and zeal alike 
gave place to stronger and better emotions. Thus died Mary, in the forty-fifth year 
of her age, and the nineteenth of her captivity—a princess unmatched in beauty, 
and unequalled in misfortunes. In contemplating the contentions of mankind, we 
find almost ever both sides culpable : Mary, who was stained with crimes that de¬ 
served punishment, was put to death by a princess who had no right to inflict 
punishment on her equal. 


174.—THE SPANISH ARMADA. 

From “ The Plain Englishman.” 

The spirit of bigotry and tyranny, by which Philip II. of Spain, formerly wedded 
to Mary, Queen of England, was actuated, with the fraudulent maxims which 
governed his counsels, excited the most violent agitation among his own people, 
engaged him in acts of the greatest cruelty, and threw all Europe into alarm. He 
had long harboured a secret and violent desire of revenge against Queen Elizabeth, 
to execute which he formed the plan of an invasion of England, by fitting out his 
invincible armada. 

Many circumstances contributed to his hatred of Elizabeth. The rejection of his 
hand on the death of her sister ; her support of the Protestant cause ; the great 
and decisive part that she embraced to prevent his oppression of the Netherlands ; 
and her successes in Spanish America ; these circumstances excited the jealousy of 
Philip, and induced him to believe that, by her subjection, he should acquire the 
renown of re-uniting the whole Christian world in the Catholic communion. 

At this period Spain was rich and populous. Philip had lately annexed the 
kingdom of Portugal to his dominions. 

All the princes of Italy, even the pope and the court of Rome, were reduced to a 
kind of subjection under him, and seemed to possess their sovereignty on terms 
somewhat precarious. The Austrian branch in Germany, with their dependant 
principalities, was closely connected with him, and was ready to supply him with 
troops for every enterprise. 



THE SPANISH ARMADA. 


PLAIN ENGLISHMAN.] 


657 


Thiee years had been spent by Philip in secretly making great preparations for 
this enterprise. The project, indeed, was formed after the Queen of Scots had 
been persuaded to make over to him her right to England, as being the only plan 
to restore there the Catholic religion. Besides this vague right, conveyed by will, 
he thought he might justly claim the crown of England as being the next Catholic 
piince descended, by the female line, from the Duke of Lancaster, fourth son of 
Edward III. Pope Sextus IV., not less ambitious than Philip), excited him to the 
invasion of England. He again excommunicated the queen. All the ports of Spain 
resounded with preparations for this alarming expedition ; and the Spaniards 
seemed to threaten the English with a total annihilation. 

The fleet, which, on account of its prodigious strength, was called “ the Invin¬ 
cible Armada,” was completed in 1588. 

The English fleet at this time consisted only of twenty-eight sail, most of which 
were very small vessels ; but the alacrity of Elizabeth’s subjects sufficiently atoned 
for the weakness of her navy. The maritime towns, the nobility and gentry, 
testified the greatest zeal on this occasion. The city of London fitted out thirty 
ships, though fifteen only had been required. The gentry and nobility hired and 
armed forty-three ships, at their own expense. Lord Howard, of Effingham, a man 
i of great courage and capacity, was Lord Admiral, and took upon him the command 
of the navy. Drake, Hawkins, and Frobisher, the most renowned seamen in 
Europe, served under him. The main fleet was stationed at Plymouth, while a 
smaller fleet, consisting of forty vessels, under the command of Lord Seymour, lay 
oft’ Dunkirk, in order to intercept the forces commanded by the Duke of Parma. 

Twenty thousand land forces were cantoned along the southern coasts of 
England ; another body of disciplined troops encamped at Tilbury, near the mouth 
of the Thames, under the command of the Earl of Leicester, whom the queen, on 
this occasion, created general in chief of all her forces ; and the Lord Hunsden 
commanded a third army, consisting of thirty thousand men, for the defence of her 
majesty’s person, and to march to that part of the coast on which the enemy 
might make their chief landing. 

The chief hopes of Elizabeth were placed in the affections of her people. Party 
distinctions were forgotten, and every man exerted himself in the defence of his 
country. 

The magnanimity of Elizabeth was remarkable on this trying occasion. She 
appeared on horseback in the camp of Tilbury, harangued her army, and expressed 
an entire confidence in their loyalty and courage. The following was her truly 
noble speech on this occasion :— 

“ My loving people, we have been persuaded, by some that are careful of our 
safetv, to take heed how we commit ourselves to armed multitudes, for fear of 
treachery ; but I assure you I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and 
I loving people. Let tyrants fear ; I have always so behaved myself, that, under 
God, I have placed my chiefest strength and eafe-guard in the loyal hearts and 
good will of my subjects. And therefore I am come amongst you, at this time, 
not as for my recreation or sport, but being resolved, in the midst and heat of the 
battle, to live or die amongst you all; to lay down for my God, and for my people, 
my honour and my blood, even in the dust. 

“ I know I have but the body of a weak and feeble woman ; but I have the 
heart of a king, and of a king of England too ; and I think it foul scorn, that 
Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my 
realms : to which, rather than any dishonour shall grow by me, I myself will take 
up arms ; I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your 
virtues in the field. 


u u 







g 58 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. l PLAIN ENGLISHMAN. 

«I know already, by your forwardness that you ^yp^d 

crowns ; and we do assure you, on the word of a prince, they shall duly p 

’'"“'in the mean time, my lieutenant-general shall be inmy' ste ^ b ' il ^“ y W yo^ 
never prince commanded a more noble and^wort iysu’ »jec , n ur ^ ’ the field, 

obedience to my general, by your concord in the camp, a 5 God 0 f m , 

we shall shortly have a famous victory over those enemies of my bod, J 

kingdom, and of my people.” death of the Marquis 

r T S he t ar Cru a z^na Sto a -bleman of great family, but 
who^unSuainted e whh V ma°ritime affairs, was appointed 

Ms interval was employed by Elizabeth in making new preparations for render 

ing the design abortive. oofh nf TVInv • but being 

At length the invincible fleet sailed from Lisbon on the 29ft ofM rut 

overtaken with a dreadful tempest, it was obliged to put into the Groyne, g 

received considerable damage. „„„ pr ,n+- p fUg 

After a delav of two months, the armada sailed once more to piosecute the 

intended “enterm-ise The fleet consisted of 130 ships, of which near 100 were 

“S and of a greater burden than had ever before appeared on the coast of 

Narmada advanced towards Plymouth. It was disposed in the form of a 
half-moon, and stretched to the distance of seven leagues fromi thei ext.e ty f 
one division to the other. But this appearance dismayed not the English they 
knew their hu»e vessels were so ill-constructed, and so difficult to be managed, that 
they would not be able to support themselves against the repeated attacks of ps 

^ Two‘of "the largest ships in the Spanish fleet were soon after taken by Sir 
Francis Drake ; and, while the enemy advanced slowly up the d*nneMhe 1 
followed their rear, and harrassed them with perpetual skirmishes The Spani a ,ds 
now began to abate in their confidence of success ; the design of attackin the 
Ehsh navy in Plymouth was laid aside, and they directed their course towards Calais. 

The aTmada, after many losses, came to an anchor before Calais, m the expecta¬ 
tion of being joined by the Prince of Parma ; but before that general could embarjc 
his troops ail hope of success vanished, by a stratagem of the English admira . 
He filled 3 eight of his smaller ships with combustible materials, and, setting them 
on fire sent them, one after another, into the midst of the enemy’s fleet. Terrified 
at this appearance, the Spaniards cut their cables and bet00 ^“ Se ^ 1 ^ 

in a very precipitous and disorderly manner. In the midst of this confusion, the 
English fell upon them with such fury, that twelve of their largest ships were 

taken, and several others were thoroughly damaged. . , 

The ambitious Spaniards were now convinced that their scheme was entirely 
frustrated, and would willingly have abandoned the enterprise and returned im¬ 
mediately to their ports, could they have done it with safety ; but this was impos- 
“ble ■ the wind was contrary, and the only chance of escaping was that of making 
a tour of the whole island, and reaching at last the Spanish harbours by the ocean , 
but a violent storm soon overtook them, and completed the destruction of the 
Invincible Armada; not half the vessels returned to the ports of Spain. 

Of the armada there were taken and destroyed in the Channel lo ships, and 
4,791 men; and on the coast of Ireland 17 ships, and 5,394 men; in all 32 

ships, and 10,185 men. 







C. K-NIQHT. 


THE FALL OF ESSEX. 


6 59 


175—THE FALL OF ESSEX. 

C. Knight, “ Shakspeee Biography.” 

The spring of 1599 saw Shakspere’s friends and patrons, Essex and Southampton, 
in honour and triumph. “ The 29th March, 1599, about two o’clock in the after¬ 
noon, Robert Earl of Essex, Vicegerent of Ireland, &c., took horse in Seeding Lane, 
and from thence, being accompanied with divers noblemen and many others, him¬ 
self very plainly attired, rode through Grace Street, Cornhill, Cheapside, and’other 
high streets, in all which places, and in the fields, the people pressed exceedingly 
to behold him, especially in the highways, for more than four miles space, crying, 
and saying, God bless your lordship, God preserve your honour, &c.; and some 
followed him until the evening, only to behold him. When he and his company 
came forth of London, the sky was very calm and clear, but before he could get 
past Iseldon, [Islington] there arose a great black cloud in the north-east, and sud¬ 
denly came lightning and thunder, with a great shower of hail aud rain, the which 
* some held as an ominous prodigy.”* It was, perhaps, with some reference to such 
forebodings, that in the chorus to the fifth act of “ Henry V.”,—which of course 
must have been performed between the departure of Essex in March, and his 
return in September—Shakspere thus anticipates the triumph of Essex 

“ But now behold, 

In the quick forge and working-house of thought, 

How London doth pour out her citizens! 

The mayor and all his brethren, in best sort,— 

Like to the senators of the antique Rome, 

With the plebeians swarming at their heels,— 

Go forth, and fetch their conquering Csesar in : 

As, by a lower but by loving likelihood, 

Were now the general of our gracious empress 
(As, in good time, he may) from Ireland coming, 

Bringing rebellion broached on his sword, 

How many would the peaceful city quit 
To welcome him ! ” 

But the “ ominous prodigy ” was sadly realized. About the close of the year 1599, 
the Blackfriars Theatre was remarkable for the constant presence of two men of 
high rank, who were there seeking amusement and instruction as some solace for 
the bitter mortifications of disappointed ambition. “My Lord Southampton and 
Lord Rutland came not to the court ; the one doth but very seldom ; they pass 
away the time in London merely in going to plays every day.”f Essex had 
arrived from Ireland on the 28th of September, 1599—not 

“ Bringing rebellion broached on his sword,”— 
not surrounded with swarms of citizens who 

Go forth and fetch their conquering Cassar in,”— 

but a fugitive from his army ; one who in his desire for peace had treated with 
rebels, and had brought down upon him the censures of the court; one who knew 
that his sovereign was surrounded with his personal enemies, and who in his reck¬ 
less anger once thought to turn his army homeward to compel justice at their 
hands ; one who at last rushed alone into the queen’s presence, “ full of dirt and 
mire,” and found that he was in the toils of his foes. From that Michaelmas till 

* Stow’s “Annals.” 

t Letter of Rowland Whyte to Sir Robert Sydney, in the Sydney Papers. 







660 


HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


fO. KNIGHT. 


the 26th of August, 1600, Essex was in the custody of the lord keeper ; in free 
custody as it was termed, but to all intents a prisoner. It was at this period that 
Southampton and Rutland passed “ away the time in London merely in going to 
plays every day,” Southampton in 1598 had married Elizabeth Vernon, a cousi$ 
of Lord Essex. The marriage was without the consent of the queen ; and there¬ 
fore Southampton was under the ban of the court, having been peremptorily dis¬ 
missed by Elizabeth from the office to which Essex had appointed him in the 
expedition to Ireland. Rutland was also connected with Essex by family ties, 
having married the daughter of Lady Essex, by her first husband, the accomplished 
Sir Philip Sydney. The season when these noblemen sought recreation at the 
theatre was one therefore of calamity to themselves, and to the friend who was at 
the head of their party in the state. We cannot with exti’eme precision fix the 
date of any novelty from the pen of Shakspere when Southampton and Rutland 
were amongst his daily auditors ; but there is every reason to believe that “ As 
You Like It ” belongs as nearly as possible to this exact period. It is pleasant to 
speculate on the tranquillizing effect that might have been produced upon the 
minds of the banished courtiers, by the exquisite philosophy of this most delicious 
play. It is pleasant to imagine Southampton visiting Essex in the splendid prison 
of the lord keeper’s house, and there repeating to him from time to time those 
lessons of wisdom that were to be found in the woods of Arden. The two noble¬ 
men who had once revelled in all the powers and privileges of court favouritism 
had now felt by how precarious a tenure is the happiness held of 

That poor man that hangs on princes’ favours.” 

The great dramatic poet of their time had raised up scenes of surpassing loveliness, 
where happiness might be sought for even amidst the severest penalties of 
fortune :— 

“ Now, my co mates, and brothers in exile, 

Hath not old custom made this life more sweet 
Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods 
, More free from peril than the envious court?” 

It was for them to feel how deep a truth was there in this lesson :— 

“ Sweet are the uses of adversity.” 

Happy are those that can feel such a truth 

“ That can translate the stubbornness of fortune 
Into so quiet and so sweet a style.” 

And yet the same poet had created a character that could interpret the feelings of 
those who had suffered undeserved indignities, and had learnt that the greatest 
crime in the world’s eye was to be unfortunate. There was one in that play who 
could moralize the spectacle of 

“ A poor sequester’d stag, 

That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt,” 

and who thus pierced through the hollowness of “ this our life ”_ 

“ ‘ Poor deer,’ quoth he, ‘ thou mak’st a testament 
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more 
To that which had too much.’ Then being there alone, 

Left and abandon’d of his velvet friend : 

* ’Tis right,’ quoth he, ‘ thus misery doth part 
The flux of company.’ Anon, a careless herd, 
l Lull of the pasture, jumps along by him. 


C. KNIGHT.] 


THE FALL OF ESSEX. 


661 


And never stays to greet him; ‘Ay,’ quoth Jaques, 

‘ Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens; 

■’Tis just the fashion : Wherefore do you look 
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there ? 

We could almost slide into the belief that “As You Like It” had an especial 
reference to the circumstances in which Essex and Southampton were placed in 
;he spring of 1600. There is nothing desponding in its tone, nothing essentially 
misanthropical in its philosophy. Jaques stands alone in his railing against man¬ 
kind. The healing influences of nature fall sweetly and fruitfully upor the exiled 
duke and his co-mates. But, nevertheless, the ingratitude of the world is empha¬ 
tically dwelt upon, even amidst the most soothing aspects of a pure and simple 
life “ under the greenwood tree.” The song of Amiens has perhaps a deeper 
meaning even than the railing of Jacques :— 

“ Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 

That dost not bite so nigh 
As benefits forgot: 

Though thou the waters warp, 

Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friend remember’d not.” 

There was one who had in him much of the poetical temperament—a gorgeous 
imagination for the externals of poetry—upon whose ear, if he ever sought common 
amusement in the days of his rising power, these words must have fallen like the 
warning voice that cried “ woe.” There was one who, when Essex in the days of 
his greatness had asked a high place for him and had been refused, received from 
the favourite a large private gift thus bestowed :—“ I know that you are the least 
part of your own matter, but you fare ill because you have chosen me for your 
mean and dependence. You have spent your time and thoughts in my matters. 
I die, if I do not somewhat toward your fortune. You shall not deny to accept a 
piece of land, which I will bestow upon you.” The answer of him who accepted a 
park from the hands of the generous man wdio had failed to procure him a place, 
was prophetic. The Duke of Guise, he said, was the greatest usurer in France, 
“ because he had turned all his estates into obligations, having left himself nothing. 

I * * * * I would not have you imitate this course, for you will find many 

bad debtors.” It was this man who, in the darkest hour of Essex, when he was 
hunted to the death, said to the Lord Steward, “ My lord, I have never yet seen 
in any case such favour shown to any prisoner.” 

“ Blow, blow, thou winter wind; 

Thou art not so unkind 
As man’s ingratitude.” 

Who can doubt that the ingratitude had begun long before the fatal catastrophe of 
- the intrigues of Cecil and Baleigh ? Francis Bacon, the ingrate, justifies himself 
by the “ rules of duty ” which opposed him to his benefactor at the bar, in his 
“ public service.” The same rules of duty were powerful enough to lead him to 
blacken his friend’s character after his death, by garbling with his own hand the 
depositions against the victim of his faction, and publishing them as authentic 
records of the trial* Essex, before the last struggles, had acquired experience of 
“ bad debtors.” The poet of “ As You Like It ” might have done something in 
teaching him to bear this and other afflictions bravely :— 

* See Jardine’s “ Criminal Trials,” vol. i. p. 387. 




662 


HALF-HOURS OP ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C. KNIGHT. 


“Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy: 

This wide and universal theatre 

Presents more woeful pageants than the scene 

Wherein we play in.” 

Essex was released from custody in the August of 1600 ; but an illegal sentence 
had been passed upon him by commissioners, that he should not execute the affairs 
of a privy counsellor, or of Earl Marshal, or of Master of the Ordnance. The queen 
signified to him that he was not to come to court without leave. He was a marked 
and a degraded man. The wily Cecil, who at this very period was carrying on a 
correspondence with James of Scotland, that might have cost him his head, was 
laying every snare for the ruin of Essex. He desired to do what he ultimately 
effected, to goad his fiery spirit into madness. Essex was surrounded with warm 
but imprudent friends. They relied upon his unbounded popularity, not only as a 
shield against arbitrary power, but as a weapon to beat down the strong arm of 
authority. During the six months which elapsed between the release of Essex and 
the fatal outbreak of 1601, Essex House saw many changing scenes, which marked 
the fitful temper and the wavering counsels of its unhappy owner. Within a 
month after he had been discharged from custody, the queen refused to renew a 
valuable patent to Essex, saying that “ to manage an ungovernable beast, he must 
be stinted in his provender.” On the other hand, rash words that had been held 
to fall from the lips of Essex were reported to the queen. “ She was now grown 
an old woman, and was as crooked within as without.” The door of reconciliation 
was almost closed for ever. Essex House had been strictly private during its 
master’s detention at the Lord Keeper’s. Its gates were now opened, not only to 
his numerous friends and adherents, but to men of all persuasions, who had injuries 
to redress or complaints to prefer. Essex had always professed a noble spirit of 
toleration, far in advance of his age ; and he now received with a willing ear the 
complaints of all those who were persecuted by the government for religious 
opinions, whether Roman Catholics or Puritans. He was in communication with 
James of Scotland, urging him to some open assertion of his presumptive title to the 
crown of England. It was altogether a season of restless intrigue, of bitter morti¬ 
fications, and rash hopes. Between the closing of the Globe Theatre and the open¬ 
ing of the Blackfriars, Shakspere was in all likelihood tranquil amidst his family at 
Stratford. The winter comes, and then even the players are mixed up with the 
dangerous events of the time. Sir Gilly Merrick, one of the adherents of Essex, 
was accused, amongst other acts of treason, with u having procured the out-dated 
tragedy of the ‘ Deposition of Richard II.’ to be publicly acted at his own charge, 
for the entertainment of the conspirators.” In the “ Declaration of the Treasons 
of the late Earl of Essex and his Complices,” which Bacon acknowledges to have 
been written by him at the queen’s command, there is the following statement:— 

“ The afternoon before the rebellion, Merrick, with a great company of others, that 
afterwards were all in the action, had procured to be played before them the play 
of deposing 1 King Richard the Second ; ’ when it was told him by one of the 
players, that the play was old , and that they should have loss in playing it, because 
few would come to it, there was forty shillings extraordinary given to play, and so 
thereupon played it was.” In the “ State Trials ” this matter is somewhat differently 
mentioned : “ The story of ‘ Henry IV.’ being set forth in a play, and in that play 
there being set forth the killing of the king upon a stage ; the Friday before, Sir 
Gilly Merrick and some others of the earl’s train having an humour to see a play, 
they must needs have the play of ‘ Henry IV.’ The players told them that was 
stale; they could get nothing by playing that ; but no play else would serve : and 
Sir Gilly Merick gives forty shillings to Philips the player to play this, besides 




THE FALL OF ESSEX. 


663 


C. KNIGHT.] 


whatsoever he could get.” Augustine Philips was one of Shakspere’s company ; 
and yet it is perfectly evident that it was not Shakspere’s “ Richard II.’ nor 
Shakspere’s “ Henry IV.,” that was acted on this occasion. In his “ Henry IV.” 
there is no “ killing of the king upon a stage.” His “ Richard II.,” which was pub¬ 
lished in 1597, was certainly not an out-dated play in 1601. A second edition of 
it had appeared in 1598, and it was no doubt highly popular as an acting play. 
But if any object was to be gained by the conspirators in the stage representation 
of the “ deposing King Richard II.,’ Shakspere’s play would not assist that object. 
The editions of 1597 and 1598 do not contain the deposition scene. That portion 
of this noble history which contains the scene of Richard’s surrender of the crown 
was not printed till 1608 ; and the edition in which it appears bears in its title 
the following intimation of its novelty : “ The Tragedie of King Richard the 
Second, with new additions of the Parliament Sceane, and the Deposing of King 
Richard. As it hath been lately acted by the Kinges servantes, at the Globe, 
by William Shake-speare.” In Shakspere’s Parliament scene our sympathies are 
wholly with King Richard. This, even if the scene were acted in 1601, would not 
have forwarded the views of Sir Gilly Merrick, if his purpose were really to hold 
up to the people an example of a monarch’s dethronement. But, nevertheless, it 
may be doubted whether such a subject could be safely played at all by the Lord 
Chamberlain’s players during this stormy period of the reign of Elizabeth. Her 
sensitiveness on this head was most remarkable. There is a very curious record 
existing of “ that which passed from the Excellent Majestie of Queen Elizabeth, in 
her Privie Chamber at East Greenwich, 4 Augusti, 1601, 43 Reg. sui, towards 
William Lambarde,”* which recounts his presenting the queen his “ Pandecta ” of 
historical documents to be placed in the Tower, which the queen read over, making 
observations and receiving explanations. The following dialogue then takes 
place:— 

« \y. L. He likewise expounded these all according to their original diversities, 
which she took in gracious and full satisfaction ; so her Majesty fell upon the reign 
of king Richard II., saying ‘ I am Richard II., know ye not that l ’ 

“ W. L. ‘ Such a wicked imagination was determined and attempted by a most 
unkind gentleman, the most adorned creature that ever your Majesq made.’ 

■*Her Majesty. ‘He that w r ill forget God will also forget his benefactors ; this 
tragedy w T as played forty times in open streets and houses. 

The “ wicked imagination ” that Elizabeth was Richard the Second, is fixed upoy 
Essex by the reply o & f Lambarde, and the rejoinder of the queen makes it clear that 
the “ wicked imagination” was attempted through the performance of the tragedy 
of the Deposition of “Richard the Second : ” “ This tragedy was played forty times 
in ODen streets and houses.” The queen is speaking six months after the outbreak 
of Essex ; ana it is not improbable that the outdated play—that performance wmch 
in the previous February the players “should have lost in playing, had been icn- 
dered popular through the partisans of Essex after his fall, and had been got up in 
open streets and houses with a dangerous avidity. But there is a circumstance 
which renders it tolerably evident that, although Sir Gilly Merrick might have given 
forty shillings to Philips to perform that stale play, the company of Shakspere were 
not the performers. In the office-book of the Treasurer of the Chamber, + there is an 
entry on the 31st of March, 1601, of a payment to John Heminge and Richaid 
Cowley, servants to the Lord Chamberlain, for three plays showed before her High- 


* This was first printed from the original in Nicholas “ Progresses of Queen Elizabeth. 

Lambarde died in a fortnight after this interview. 

•j- Cunningham’s “ Revels at Court. 






664 


HALF HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[C. KNIGHT. 

ness on St. Stephen’s day at night (26th December, 1600), Twelfth day at night, 
(January 6th, 1601), and Shrove Tuesday at night. (Easter-day being on the 12th 
of April in 1601, Shrove Tuesday would be on the 3rd of March). Shakspere’s 
company were thus performing before the queen within a week of the period when 
Essex was beheaded. They would not have been so performing had they exhibited 
the offensive tragedy. 

In her conversation with Lambarde, Elizabeth uttered a great truth, which might 
not be unmingled with a retrospect of the fate of Essex. Speaking of the days of 
her ancestors, she said, “ In those days force and arms did prevail, but now the wit 
of the fox is every where on foot, so as hardly a faithful or virtuous man may be 
found.” When Raleigh w r as called upon the trial of Essex, and “ his oath given 
him,” Essex exclaimed, “ What booteth it to swear the fox 1 ” The fox had even 
then accomplished his purpose. He had driven his victim onwards to that fatal 
movement of Sunday, the 8th of February, which, begun without reasonable plan 
or fixed purpose, ended in casual bloodshed and death by the law. We may 
readily believe that the anxiety of Shakspere for his friends and benefactors would 
have led him to the scene of that wild commotion. He might have seen Essex and 
Southampton, with Danvers, Blount, Catesby, Owen Salisbury, and a crowd of fol¬ 
lowers, riding into Fleet-street, shouting, “ For the queen ! for the queen ! ” He 
might have heard the people crying on every side, “ God save your honour ! God 
bless your honour ! ” An hour or two later he might have listened to the procla¬ 
mation in Gracechurch-street and Cheapside, that the earl and all his company 
were traitors. By two o’clock of that fatal Sunday, Shakspere might have seen his 
friends fighting their way back through the crowds of armed men who suddenly 
assailed them, and taking boat at Queenhithe, reach Essex House in safety. But it 
was surrounded with soldiers and artillery ; shots were fired at the windows ; the 
cries of women within mingled with the shouts of fury without. At last came the 
surrender, at ten o’clock at night. The axe with the edge turned towards the 
prisoners followed as a matter of course. 


176.—ESSEX AND BACON. 

Essex. I did believe, sir, I had helpt to raise 
Many to wealth and station, some to fame,— 

And one to friendship. 

Bacon. You, my noble earl, 

Have done it; and much more. Wo must lament 
A power thus past (or rather thrown) away. 

Essex. Thou ! thou lament it, Bacon ? 

Bacon. To my soul. 

Essex. Why then, with energy beyond the pitch 
Of brawling law, cry vengeance 1 when my fortune 
Was pierced with every bolt from every hand, 

Soon as the golden links were snapt asunder, 

Which they who rule the earth held round that bird 
Who bore their lightnings and struck down their foes. 

Bacon. My gracious lord ! were always their commands 
Well waited for ? 

Essex. Nay, by my troth, my zeal 

Outflew them. 


T4AND0R. 



LANDOR.J 


ESSEX AND BACON. 


665 












Bacon. Your return was unadvised. 

Essex. Unwelcome : that is worse. 

Bacon. The worst of all 

"Was summoning to arms a loyal land, 

Basking in peace and plenteousness. 

Essex. How far 

Extended this your basking ? court indeed 
And inns of law were warm enough ; on those 
The sun beats all the day, through all the year; 

Everything there so still and orderly, 

That he who sneezes in them is caught up 
And cudgel’d for his pains. 

Bacon. Should he awake 

Trumpets by sneezing, should he blow up banners, 

’Twere well if only cudgels fell on him : 

Our laws have sharper instruments, my lord 

Essex. I know it; and I knew it ere I rose. 

Bacon. 0 ! had this never happened ! 

Essex. Then wouldst thou 

Have lost some smiles, some parleyings, some tags 
Of ermine, and,—what more thou valuest 
(As any wise man would)—some little gold. 

Bacon. Dross ! 

Essex, {smiling). Very true !—as men are dust and ashes. 

Bacon. Such thoughts become all mortals ; most of all 
Those who have fallen under high displeasure, 

Who have their God and prince to reconcile, 

And are about to change this brief vile life 
Nay, nay, my lord ! your life may rest unchanged 
For years to come, if you, upon your knees, 

Humbly ask pardon— 

Essex, {fiercely). Pardon ! [After Hesitation . 

I will ask it— 

Bacon. Before the privy-council, and the court 
Especially assembled. 

Essex, {indignantly). Hot before 

The best among them, were he quite alone. 

No, by the soul of Essex ! were he Baleigh— 

The only great man there. 

Bacon. Are we s0 scorned ? 

Essex. Bacon ! I did not say the only wise one 
'So, do not break thy ring, or loose the stone. 

Bacon. My lord ! my finger might have been uneasy 
Without such notice from that once high peer 
Erewhile the Earl of Essex—until treason 
Level’d him lower than burgess or than churl. 

Essex. I will not say thou liest ; for thy tongue 
Lags far behind thy heart; thy strongest wit 
May stretch and strain, but never make them yoke-mates. 

Bacon. This cork appliance, this hard breathing, served 
While there was water under for support, 

But cut a dismal figure in the mud. 




666 


HALF-HOURS OE ENGLISH HISTORY. 


[r. ando a. 


Essex. To servile souls how abject seem the fallen ! 
Benchers and message-bearers stride o’er Essex ! 

Bacon. Unmasted pinnace may row safely under 
No high colossus, without pricking it. 

But, sure, the valiant Earl is somewhat chafed— 

Who could have thought it!—by a worm like me ! 
Essex. Begone ! I have fairly weighed thee. 

Bacon. (alone). He weigh me ! 

No man is stout enough to trim the balance, 

Much less to throw the weight in— 

He weigh me ! 

Elaunting and brittle as a honeysuckle, 

Sweet in the chamber, in the field blown down, 
Bamping in vain to reach again its prop, 

And crusht by the first footfal. 

Arrogance 

Stares, but sees badly : snatches with quick gripe 
What seems within the reach, and, being infirm 
Of stand, is overbalanced. 

Shall I bear 

Foul words upon me ? 

I have thrown them back 
Manfully to the beard that wagged with them. 

My courage is now safe beyond suspicion— 

Myself can hardly doubt it after this. 

Yet that audacious criminal dared spit 
Beproaches ! seldom are they bearable, 

But, springing up from reason, sting like asps— 

Not that the man has reason—he has none : 

For, what had I to do with it ? I spoke, 

And when we are commanded, we must speak. 

It was her Grace—and surely she knows best. 

I may now wash my hands of him at last, 

I have but done my duty : fall who may. 


177.—THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TUDORS. 

Macaulay. 

It has long been the fashion, a fashion introduced by Mr. Hume, to describo the 
English monarchy in the sixteenth century as an absolute monarchy. And such 
undoubtedly it appears to a superficial observer. Elizabeth, it is true, often spoke 
to her parliaments in language as haughty and imperious as that which the Great. 
Turk would use to his divan. She punished with great severity members of the 
House of Commons who, in her opinion, carried the freedom of debate too far. She 
assumed the power of legislating by means of proclamations. She imprisoned her 
subjects without bringing them to a legal trial. Torture was often employed in 
defiance of the laws of England, for the purpose of extorting confessions from those 
who were shut up in her dungeons. The authority of the Star Chamber and. of the 
Ecclesiastical Commission was at its highest point. Severe restraints were imposed 
on political and religious discussion. The number of presses was at one time 





MACAULAY.] 


THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TUDORS. 


66V 


limited. No man could print without a license ; and every work had to undergo 
the scrutiny of the Primate, or the bishop of London. Persons whose writings 
were displeasing to the court were cruelly mutilated, like Stubbs, or put to death, 
like Penry. Nonconformity was severely punished. The queen prescribed the 
exact rule of religious faith and discipline ; and whoever departed from that rule 
either to the right or to the left, was in danger of severe penalties. 

Such was this government. Yet we know that it was loved by the great body 
of those who lived under it. "We know that, during the fierce contests of the 
sixteenth century, both the hostile parties spoke of the time of Elizabeth as of a 
golden age. That great queen has now been lying two hundred and thirty years in 
Henry the Seventh’s chapel. Yet her memory is still dear to the heaits of a 
free people. 

The truth seems to be that the government of the Tudors was, with a few occa¬ 
sional deviations, a popular government, under the forms of despotism. At first 
sight, it may seem that the prerogatives of Elizabeth were not less ample than those 
of Louis the Fourteenth, and her parliaments were as obsequious as his parliaments, 
that her warrant Jnad as much authority as his lettre-de-cachet. The extravagance 
with which her courtiers eulogized her personal and mental charms went bej ond 
the adulation of Boileau and Molidre. Louis would have blushed to receive from 
those who composed the gorgeous circles of Marli and Versailles such outward 
marks of servitude as the haughty Britoness exacted of all who approached her. 
But the authority of Louis rested on the support of his army. The authoiity of 
Elizabeth rested solely on the support of her people. Those who say that her 
power was absolute do not sufficiently consider in what her power consisted. Her 
power consisted in the willing obedience of her subjects, in their attachment to her 
person and to her office, in their respect for the old line from which she sprang, in 
their sense of the general security which they enjoyed under her government. 
These were the means, and the only means, which she had at her command for 
carrying her decrees into execution, for resisting foreign enemies, and for crushing 
domestic treason. There was not a ward in the city, there was not a hundred in 
any shire in England, which could not have overpowered the handful of armed men 
who composed her household. If a hostile sovereign threatened invasion, if an 
ambitious noble raised the standard of revolt, she could have recourse only to the 
train-bands of her capital and the array of her counties, to the citizens and yeomen 
of England, commanded by the merchants and esquires of England. 

Thus when intelligence arrived of the vast preparations which Philip was making 
for the subjugation of the realm, the first person to whom the government thought 
of applying for assistance was the Lord Mayor of London. They sent to ask him 
what force the city would engage to furnish for the defence of the kingdom against 
the Spaniards. The Mayor and Common Council, m return, desired to know wha, 
force the queen’s highness wished them to furnish. The answer was, fifteen ships, 
and five thousand men. The Londoners deliberated on the matter, and two days 
after, “humbly intreated the council, in sign of their perfect love and loyalty to 
prince and country, to accept ten thousand men, and thirty ships amp y 

^People who could give such signs as these of their loyalty were by no means to 
be misgoverned with impunity. The English in the sixteenth century were, beyond 
all doubt, a free people. They had not, indeed, the outward show of freedom but 
they had the reality! They had not as good a constitution as we have, but they 
had that without which the best constitution is as useless as the king s proclamation 
ainst vice and immorality, that which, without any constitution, keeps rulers m 


age 





668 HALF-HOD RS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [MACAULAY. 

awe ; force, and the spirit to use it. Parliaments, it is true, were rarely held, and 
were not very respectfully treated. The great charter was often violated. But the 
people had a security against gross and systematic misgovernment. far stronger than 
all the parchment that was ever marked with the sign manual, and than all the wax 
that was ever pressed by the great seal. 

It is a common error in politics to confound means with ends. Constitutions, 
charters, petitions of right, declarations of right, representative assemblies, electoral 
colleges, are not good government ; nor do they, even when most elaborately con¬ 
structed, necessarily produce good government. Laws exist in vain for those who 
have not the courage and the means to defend them. Electors meet in vain where 
want makes them the slaves of the landlord, or where superstition makes them the 
slaves of the priest. Representative assemblies sit in vain unless they have at 
their command, in the last resort, the physical power which is necessary to make 
their deliberations free, and their votes effectual. 

The Irish are better represented in parliament than the Scotch, who indeed are 
not represented at all.* But are the Irish better governed than the Scotch ? 
Surely not. This circumstance has of late been used as an argument against reform. 
It proves nothing against reform. It proves only this, that laws have no magical, 
no supernatural virtue ; that laws do not act like Aladdin’s lamp or Prince Ahmed’s 
apples ; that priestcraft, that ignorance, that the rage of contending factions, may 
make good institutions useless ; that intelligence, sobriety, industry, moral freedom, 
firm union, may supply in a great measure the defects of the worst representative 
system. A people whose education and habits are such, that, in every quarter of 
the world, they rise above the mass of those with whom they mix, as surely as oil 
rises to the top of water, a people of such temper and self-government that the 
wildest popular excesses recorded in their history partake of the gravity of judicial 
proceedings, and of the solemnity of religious rites, a people whose national pride 
and mutual attachment have passed into a proverb, a people whose high and fierce 
spirit, so forcibly described in the haughty motto which encircles their thistle, 
preserved their independence during a struggle of centuries, from the encroachments 
of wealthier and more powerful neighbours, such a people cannot be long oppressed. 
Any government, however constituted, must respect their wishes, and tremble at 
their discontents. It is indeed most desirable that such a people should exercise 
a direct influence on the conduct of affairs, and should make their wishes known 
through constitutional organs. But some influence, direct or indirect, they will 
assuredly possess. Some organ, constitutional or unconstitutional, they will assuredly 
find. They will be better governed under a good constitution than under a bad 
constitution. But they wil be better governed under the worst constitution than 
some other nations under the best. In any general classification of constitutions, 
the constitution of Scotland must be reckoned as one of the worst, perhaps as the 
worst, in Christian Europe. Yet the Scotch are not ill-governed. And the reason 
is simply that they will not bear to be ill-governed. 

In some of the Oriental monarchies, in Afghanistan for example, though there 
exists nothing which an European publicist would call a constitution, the sovereign 
generally governs in conformity with certain rules established for the public 
benefit; and the sanction of those rules is, that every Afghan approves them, and 
that every Afghan is a soldier. 

The monarchy of England in the sixteenth centuiy was a monarchy of this kind. 
It is called an absolute monarchy, because little respect was paid by the Tudors to 

* It must be remembered that this was written before the passing of the Reform Act. 


MACAULAY.] 


THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TUDORS. 


669 


those institutions which we have been accustomed to consider as the sole checks on 
the power of the sovereign. A modern Englishman can hardly understand how the 
people can have had any real security for good government under kings who levied 
benevolences, and chid the House of Commons as they would have chid a 
pack of dogs. People do not sufficiently consider that, though the legal checks 
were feeble, the natural checks were strong. There was one great and effectual 
limitation on the royal authority, the knowledge that, if the patience of the nation 
were severely tried, the nation would put forth its strength, and that its strength 
would be found irresistible. If a large body of Englishmen became thoroughly dis¬ 
contented, instead of presenting requisitions, holding large meetings, passing reso¬ 
lutions, signing petitions, forming associations and unions, they rose up ; they too k 
their halberds and their bows ; and, if the sovereign was not sufficiently popular to 
find among his subjects other halberds and other bows to oppose to the rebels 
nothing remained for him but a repetition of the horrible scenes of Berkeley anc 
Pomfret. He had no regular army which could, by its superior arms and its supe¬ 
rior skill, overawe or vanquish the sturdy Commons of his realm, abounding m c 
native hardihood of Englishmen, and trained in the simple discipline o, the mili tia 
It has been said that the Tudors were as absolute as the Caesars. Bevei 
parallel so unfortunate. The government of the Tudors was the direct opposite to 
the government of Augustus and his successors. The Caesars ruled despotica y, y 
means of a great standing army, under the decent forms of a republican constitution. 
They called themselves citizens. They mixed unceremoniously with other citizens 
In theory they were only the elective magistrates of a free commonwealth. Insteac o 
arrogating to themselves despotic power, they acknowledged allegiance to the senate. 
They were merely the lieutenants of that venerable body. They mixed 111 de ^ 
They even appeared as advocates before the courts of law. Yet - ey cou 'a 
indulge in the wildest freaks of cruelty and rapacity, while their legions remained 
faithful. Our Tudors, on the other hand, under the titles and forms of monaic ica 
supremacy, were essentially popular magistrates. They had no means of protecting 
themselves against the public hatred ; and they were therefore compelled to court 
the public favour. To enjoy all the state and all the personal o 

absolute power, to be adored with Oriental prostrations, to dispose at will of the 
liberty and even of the life of ministers and courtiers, this the nation gi anted to 
the Tudors. But the condition on which they were suffered to the tyrants of 
Whitehall was that they should be the mild and paternal sovereigns of England. Tlmy 
were under the same restraints with regard to their people under which a military 
despot is placed with regard to his army. They would have lound it as dangerous to 
grind their subjects with cruel taxation, as Nero would have found it to leave his 
praetorians unpaid. Those who immediately surrounded the royal person and 
engaged in the hazardous game of ambition, were exposed to the most fearful 
dangers. Buckingham, Cromwell, Surrey, Seymour of Sudeley, ^“erset North um- 
WKnd Suffolk, Norfolk, Essex, perished on the scaffold, but in general tne 
country gentleman hunted and the merchant traded in peace. Even Henry as 
cruel as Domitian, but far more politic, contrived, while reeking with the blood of 

T/imise to be a favourite with the cobblers. . ,. 

The Tudors committed very tyrannical acts. But in their ordinary dealings with 

- 2 ssc 33 apstfaS 

foul scorn at Parma and at Spain. But to this endurance there was a hunt. 








670 HALF-HOURS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. [MACAULAY. 

the government ventured to adopt measures which the people really felt to be 
oppressive, it was soon compelled to change its course. When Henry the Eighth 
attempted to raise a forced loan of unusual amount by proceedings of unusual 
rigour, the opposition which he encountered was such as appalled even his stubborn 
and imperious spirit. The people, we are told, said that, if they were treated thus, 
“ then were it worse than the taxes of France ; and England should be bond, and 
not free.” The county of Suffolk rose in arms. The king prudently yielded to an 
opposition which, if he had persisted, would, in all probability, have taken the form 
of a geneial rebellion. Towards the close of the reign of Elizabeth, the people felt 
themselves aggrieved by the monopolies. The queen, proud and courageous as she 
was, shrank from a contest with the nation, and, with admirable sa'gacity, conceded 
all that her subjects had demanded, while it was yet in her power to concede with 
dignity and grace. 


CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS. 


671 


178.—CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS, 

FROM THE ACCESSION OF EDWARD I. TO THE DEATH OF ELIZABETH. 

A.D. 

1272 Nov. 20. Edward I. proclaimed by the barons at the New Temple, and a regency 

appointed. 

1273 Feb. Edward goes to Paris and does homage to Philip III. for the lands in France. 

1274 Aug. 19. He is crowned with his queen at Westminster. 

Alexander III., king of Scots, does homage to Edward for his English possessions. 

1277 Edward invades Wales. 

1282 Llewellyn, prince of Wales, takes several places; Nov. 6. Edward is defeated; 
Llewellyn is slain. 

1286 March 16. Alexander, king of Scotland, is killed. 

1291 May 10. The Scotch barons appear at Norliam, and Edward claims to be lord para¬ 

mount of Scotland, when the several competitors for the crown of Scotland admit 

Edward’s claim. , 

1292 Nov. 6 and 17. Edward adjudges the kingdom of Scotland to Baliol, who is crowned 

at Scone, and does homage to Edward for his kingdom at Newcastle. 

1296 March. A Scottish army invade Cumberland. 

March 30. Edward takes Berwick and massacres the inhabitants. 

July. The coronation stone is removed from Scone to Westminster. 

1297 Wallace heads a revolt and takes Scone. 

Aug. Edward lands at Sluys ; gains some towns. . 

Sept. 4. Wallace gains a victory; the castles of Edinburgh, Dunbar, Roxburgh, and 
Berwick surrender ; he is made guardian of the kingdom. 

1299 July 22. The battle of Falkirk ; Edward ravages Scotland. 

1290 Sept. Edward marries Margaret of I ranee; the Prince of Wales is contracted to 
Isabella of France. 

The pope claims Scotland. 

1301 Parliament denies the authority of the pope in temporal matters. 

Edward marches against Scotland. 

1304 Wallace is captured and brought to London. 

1305 Aug. 23. Wallace is executed as a traitor. 

1306 Feb. 10. Robert Bruce the younger slays Comyn. 

March 27. He is crowned king of Scotland at Scone. 

June 19. Battle of Methven ; Bruce is defeated and flies to Ireland. 

1307 May 10. Battle of Loudon Hill; Bruce defeats the Earl of Pembroke and the Earl 

of Gloucester. 

July 7. Edward dies at Burgh-upon-Sands. 

July 8. Edward II. is acknowledged king at Carlisle. 

July 27. Edward I. is buried at Westminster. 

Gaveston is made Earl of Cornwall. 

1308 Jan. 25. Edward marries Isabella of France at Boulogne. 

Gaveston is expelled, but made governor of Ireland. 

1309 Gaveston returns. , 

The Templars of England are tried and condemned, and the order suppressed. 

1311 August. Parliament recalls the grants made by Edward to Gaveston; he is banished; 

parliament to be holden once every year. 

Dec. Gaveston again returns. . 

1312 May 19. Gaveston surrenders at Scarborough, and is beheaded at .blacklow Hill. 

1313 June 11. Edward marches into Scotland. 

June 23. Battle of Bannockburn ; the English are driven out of Scotland. 

1318 Bruce makes two invasions of England. . 

] 3 ig Edward marches an army into Scotland ; the Scotch invade England. 

1321 Aug. The Despencers are banished by parliament. 

Oct They return to England. 








672 


CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS. 


1322 The Earl of Lancaster is defeated and taken prisoner at Boroughbridge. He 

is condemned and executed for treason. 

1323 May 30. A suspension of arms for thirteen years agreed upon between England and 

Scotland. 

Roger Mortimer escapes from the Tower. 

1325 Sept. 24. Queen Isabella and the Prince of Wales land at Orwell; she is joined by 
the barons. 

Sept. 26. The Prince of Wales declared by the barons guardian of the kingdom. 
Edward and the younger Despencer are captured; Despencer is executed at Hereford 
as a traitor. 

1327 Jan. 8. Edward is deposed and the Prince of Wales proclaimed king. 

Sept. Edward II. is murdered at Berkeley Castle, and buried in the abbey at 
Gloucester. 

1328 Jan. 24. Edward marries Philippa of Hainault, at York. 

Peace is concluded with the Scots ; the independence of Scotland recognised. 

1330 June. Edward the Black Prince is born at Woodstock. 

Nov. 26. Parliament is assembled; Mortimer is impeached of murder and other 
crimes; found guilty. 

Nov. 29. He is hanged at the Elms, and Queen Isabella is committed to custody. 

1332 Sept. 24. Edward Baliol is crowned king of Scotland at Scone. 

1333 July 13. Battle of Halidon Hill; Edward Baliol is reinstated as king, does homage, 

and surrenders Berwick and other places to Edward. 

1338 Baliol is again expelled from Scotland. 

1339 Sept. Edward assumes the title of king of France, and quarters the French arms. 
1840 June 24. Destroys the French fleet oft’ Sluys. 

1346 July. Edward lands at Cape La Hogue with an army of English, Welsh, and Irish ; 

he takes several towns ; forces the passage of Blanche-Taque. 

Aug. 26. Battle of Crecy gained by the Black Prince. 

Aug. 31. Edward begins the siege of Calais. 

Sept. David of Scotland invades England; takes several places. 

Oct. 17. Battle of Nevil’s Cross ; King David is taken prisoner, and sent to London. 

1347 Aug. 3. Calais is surrendered to Edward. 

1355 Edward opens the campaign in France; he ravages a great part of the country. The 

Scots retake Berwick. Edward returns to England. 

1356 Sept. 19. Battle of Poictiers ; King John and his son Philip are taken prisoners. 

1357 April 24. The Black Prince, King John, and Prince Philip enter London. 

1359 Edward goes to France with a great army ; lays siege to Rheims. 

1360 May. The peace of Bretigny concluded; Edward renounces his pretensions to the 

crown of France. 

1366 Richard of Bordeaux, son of the Black Prince, is born. 

1367 April 3. The Black Prince, the Duke of Lancaster, and Peter the Cruel, defeat Don 

Enrique, and Peter is reinstated on the throne. 

Edward reassumes his title of king of France. 

1369 Queen Philippa dies. 

The Black Prince besieges Limoges and massacres the inhabitants; he returns to 
England. 

1371 David, king of Scotland, dies. 

Accession of Robert II. 

1376 June 8. The Black Prince dies. 

1377 The Duke of Lancaster supports Wyclifte, and causes a riot in London; the Savoy 

Palace is plundered. 

, June 21. King Edward dies. 

June 22. Accession of Richard II. 

1378 Jack Straw raises an insurrection in Essex, Kent, Suffolk, and Norfolk. 

A tax-gatherer killed by Wat Tyler: 

1381 June 11. The rebels encamp at Blackheath. 

J une 14. Wat Tyler is slain in Sinithfield; the rebellion is repressed, and a general 
pardon is granted. 




CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS. 


C73 


A.D. 

1382 

1385 

1389 

1397 

1398 

1399 


,1400 


1402 

1403 


1405 

1408 

1413 

1414 

1415 


1416 

1417 


1418 

1419 

1420 

1421 

1422 


Richard is married to Anne of Bohemia, daughter of the Emperor Charles IV. 

The French prepare to invade England ; several of their ships are taken. 

May. Richard assumes the government. 

Bolingbroke is created Duke of Hereford; the Earl of Nottingham and John Hol¬ 
land are created Dukes of Norfolk and Exeter. 

Jan. Norfolk challenges Hereford. 

Sept. 16. Norfolk is banished for life, and Hereford for ten years. 

July. Hereford lands at Ravenspur; Richard is captured and taken to Flint; is 
carried prisoner to Chester, and subsequently sent to the Tower. 

Sept. 30. Parliament meets; Richard renounces the crown; an act of deposition is 
passed ; Hereford is acknowledged king. 

Oct. 13. Henry IY. is crowned in Westminster Abbey. 

King Richard is murdered at Pontefract Castle. 

Henry collects an army; demands of the King of Scots to do him homage; ha 
marches to Edinburgh, but is repulsed by the Duke of Rothsay. 

Owen Glendower heads an insurrection in Wales. 

Sept. 14. Battle of Homildon Hill; Douglas is captured. 

Insurrection of the Percies of Northumberland. 

July 21. Battle of Shrewsbury; Hotspur is killed. 

The Prince of Wales defeats Glendower in some skirmishes. 

An insurrection again breaks out in the north; the Archbishop of York, the Earl of 
Nottingham, and others, captured at Shipton-on-the-Moor; are beheaded at Pontefract. 

The Prince of Wales subdues South Wales. . 

The Earl of Northumberland and Lord Bardolph take several castles in Northum¬ 
berland. 

Feb. 28. They are defeated and slain at Branham Moor. 

March 20. Henry dies in the Jerusalem Chamber. 

March 21. Accession of Henry V. 

Sir John Oldcastle is accused of heresy. 

Jan. 7. The king takes some of the Lollards in St. Giles’s Fields, who are hanged 

April 16. Henry announces to a council at Westminster his determination to invade 

The 1 Earl of Cambridge, Lord Scrope, and Sir Thomas Masham are executed for 
treason. 

Henry sails from Southampton. 

Aug. 14. lands near Harfleur. 

Aug. 17. Besieges Harfleur. 

Sept. 22. It is surrendered to him; challenges the dauphin. 

Oct. 6. Henry begins his march ; passes through Normandy. 

Oct. 25. The battle of Agincourt. 

Aug. 15. The Duke of Bedford sails from Rye; gains a victory over the French and 

Genoese fleets, and raises the siege of Harfleur. 

Aug. Henry lands at Tonque; conquers many places m Normandy; the French sue 

for peace. 

The Scotch invade England;“ the foul raid. ’ . u 

Sir John Oldcastle is captured ; tried ; hanged and burnt in St. Giles s Fields. 

July. Henry completes the conquest of Lower Normandy. 

Jan. 16. He enters Rouen; completes the' conquest of Normandy. 

Sept. 10. The Duke of Burgundy is assassinated at Montereau. 

The treaty of Troyes is executed. . 

June 2. Henry is married to the Princess Catherine of France. 

Jan. Catherine is crowned queen of England at Westminster. 

June. Henry and Catherine keep their court at the palace of the Louvre. 

Au cr . 31. Henry dies at Vincennes. . . c 

The Duke of Gloucester is appointed protector, and the Duke of Bedford regent of 

Oct? Charles YI. of France dies, and is succeeded bv Charles YII. 

X X 




674 


CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS. 


1422 The Duke of Bedford proclaims Henry VI. at Paris, and fealty is sworn to him as 
king of Prance. 

1424 Peb. 24. James, king of Scotland, marries Lady Johanna Beaufort. 

1425 Queen Catherine marries Owen Tudor. 

1428 The Duke of Gloucester’s marriage with Jacqueline of Holland is declared void; he 

marries Eleanor Cobham. 

Oct. 12. The siege of Orleans is commenced by the Earl of Salisbury. 

1429 Peb. The battle of Herrings fought at Itouvrai. 

The Maid of Orleans is introduced to Charles at Chinon. 

She carries succours into Orleans. 

The English are defeated at the battle of Patay. 

July 15. Charles enters' Rheims with the Maid of Orleans. 

1430 May 25. The Maid relieves Compeigne; makes a sortie; she is captured by the 

troops of the Duke of Burgundy. 

1431 The Maid is sent to Rouen; she is tried for heresy, and ultimately burnt in the 

market-place. 

Nov. Henry is crowned in Notre Dame in Paris. 

1434 Sept. 14. The Duke of Bedford dies at Rouen. 

1436 The Duke of York is appointed regent of Prance. 

1437 The Duke of York is recalled; the Earl of Warwick is appointed to command. 

1439 The Earl of Warwick dies; York is reappointed. 

The plague and famine ravage England and France. 

1441 The D-ichess of Gloucester is accused of treason and sorcery; is condemned to per 
petual imprisonment. 

1444 Truce agreed on for two years. 

Anjou and Maine are agreed to be given up to the Duke of Anjou on the marriage 
of his daughter Margaret with King Henry. 

1447 Feb. 11. The Duke of Gloucester is arrested for treason, and on the 28th is found 
dead in his bed. 

April 11. Cardinal Beaufort dies at Walvesey. 

1449 Rouen is taken by the Count of Dunois. 

The Duke of York suppresses an insurrection in Ireland. 

1450 Jan. The Duke of Suffolk is committed to the Tower, impeached, banished, and 

beheaded in a boat in the Channel. 

1451 Jack Cade raises an insurrection in Kent, encamps on Blackheath, defeats the royal 

troops at Sevenoaks, beheads the Lord Say in Cheapside, and is slain by Alexander 
Iden. 

Aug. The Duke of York returns to England. 

Nov. It is proposed in parliament that he shall be declared heir to the throne. 

1452 March 10. He makes his submission; retires to Wigmore. 

1453 Queen Margaret is delivered of a son, created Prince of Wales. 

The Duke of Somerset is sent to the Tower. 

1454 Peb. The Duke of York opens parliament as lieutenant for the king; he is elected 

protector. 

The king resumes his authority; liberates the Duke of Somerset. 

May 22. The Duke of York takes St. Albans, and captures Henry; the Duke of 
Somerset and many other nobles are slain. 

York is again declared protector. 

1456 Henry again resumes his authority. 

March 25. The Lancastrians and Yorkists are reconciled. 

5 459 Sept. The Yorkists gain a great victory at Blore-heath. 

Sept. 14. York breaks up his camp and retreats to Ireland. 

1460 June. Warwick lands in Kent; enters London with the son of York. 

Battle of Northampton; Henry is taken prisoner. 

Oct. 16. The Duke of York returns to London; he demands the crown. 

Oct. 23. It is agreed in the upper house that Henry shall continue lung, ana on his 
death York shall succeed. 

Dec. 31. Battle of Wakefield; York is slain, 


CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS. 


675 


A.T>, 

14C1 The Earl of March succeeds his father as Duke of York. 

Feb. 1. Battle of Mortimer’s Cross; Owen Tudor is taken, and with others is 
beheaded. 

Queen Margaret defeats the Earl of Warwick. 

Feb. 17. Battle of Barnet; second battle of St. Albans; King Henry is retaken by 
the queen. 

Feb. 25. The Duke of York enters London, and on March 4 is proclaimed king. 
March 28. Battle of Towton; Henry, Queen Margaret, and the Prince of Wales, fly 
to Scotland. 

June 29. Edward IY. is crowned at Westminster; his brothers, George and Kichard, 
are created dukes of Clarence and Gloucester. 

Nov. 4. Parliament assemble; Edward’s title is declared valid. 

1464 May 1. Edward marries the widow of Sir John Gray. 

1467 The Earl of Warwick goes to Normandy to negotiate a marriage between the son of 
Louis XI. of France and the Princess Margaret. 

1469 The Duke of Clarence marries Isabella, daughter of Warwick, at Calais. 

Warwick returns to England; Edward is confined in Middleham Castle. 

1470 Mar. 12. The battle of Erpingham; Edward defeats the Lancastrians; Warwick 

and Clarence take refuge in Normandy. 

The Prince of Wales is married to Anne, the second daughter of Warwick. 

Sept. 13. Warwick lands on the coast of Devonshire; Edward takes ship and pro¬ 
ceeds to the Hague. 

Oct. 6. Warwick enters London; releases King Henry from the Tower; Queen 
Elizabeth takes refuge in the Sanctuary at Westminster; is there delivered of a son. 
147] March 16. Edward lands at Ravenspur, and reaches London. 

April 30. Second battle of Barnet; Warwick is slain ; King Henry again sent to the 

Tower. 

May 4. Battle of Tewkesbury; the queen and prince are taken prisoners; the prince 
is murdered. 

May 22. King Henry is found dead in the Tower. 

1475 June 22. Edward lands at Calais with a great army. 

Aug. 22. He meets Louis on a bridge across the Somme, at Picquigny; a treaty is 

concluded. 

1478 Jan. 16. Clarence is accused of witchcraft and other crimes, is found guilty, and dies, 
or is killed, in the Tower. 

J483 April 9. King Edward dies; is buried at Windsor. 

Gloucester returns from Scotland; places Rivers, Gray, and Sm Thomas Vaughan 
under arrest, and on June 14 they are beheaded. 

April 23. Queen Elizabeth takes sanctuary with the Duke of York, and her daughters 

at Westminster. 

May 22. Gloucester is appointed protector. 

June 13. Lord Hastings is arrested, and beheaded. 

July 6. Gloucester is crowned king of England as Richard III. 

Edward V. and the Duke of York are murdered. 

Oct. 18. An insurrection in favour of Richmond breaks out, and Aie Duke of Buck¬ 
ingham is captured and beheaded. 

1485 Aim. 7. Richmond lands at Milford Haven. 

Aug. 22. Battle of Bosworth Field; Richard is slain; and Henry VII.is crowned on 

the field of battle. 

Aug. 27. Henry enters London. 

Sept. 21. The sweating sickness breaks out in London. 

14cG Jan. 18. Henry marries Elizabeth of York; union of the houses of York and Lan- 

caster. 

SimneJ, with the Earl of Lincoln and others, and an army of Germans and Irish, 

jarid at the Pile of Foudray. , . 

1417 June 10. Battle of Stoke; the rebels are defeated; Simnel and Simon are taken, 

the Earl of Lincoln is slain. 

Nov. 20. The queen is crowned at Westminster. 




676 


CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS. 


A.D. 

1191 Perkin Warbeck lands at Cork, and declares himself the Duke of York, son of 
Edward IV. 

1495 July 3. Warbeck lands at Deal; the people rise against him; his adherents are sent 

to London ; he escapes to Flanders. 

1496 Warbeck is married in Scotland to Lady Catherine Gordon, daughter of the Earl of 

Huntley. 

King James invades England with Warbeck and an army of Scots, Germans, and 
Flemings; they retire. 

1497 Sept. Warbeck lands at Whitsand Bay, Cornwall; assumes the title of PJchard IV.; 

fails in bis attempt, and surrenders. 

1499 Nov. 16. Warbeck is tried for treason, convicted, and executed at Tyburn. 

1501 Nov. 6. Prince Arthur is married to Catherine of Aragon. 

1502 Jan. 29. The Princess Margaret is married by proxy in London to James of Scotland. 
April. Arthur, prince of Wales, dies at Ludlow. 

1503 Henry, prince of Wales, is affianced to the widow of his brother Arthur. 

1509 April 21. Henry dies at Richmond; is buried in bis chapel at Westminster. 

Accession of Henry VIII. 

June 3. He is married to Catherine of Aragon, at Greenwich. 

1513 June 30. Henry lands at Calais; marches to the siege of Terouenne; the Emperor 
Maximilian joins him ; the battle of Spurs. 

Sept. 9. Battle of Flodden Field; James is slain. 

Oct. 21. Henry returns with his army to England. 

1515 Wolsey is created a cardinal, and made chancellor and legate. 

1520 May 31. Henry, the queen, and his retinue embark for Calais, to meet Francis I., 

and on June 7, the two kings meet at the Field of Cloth of Gold. 

1521 May 17. Buckingham is beheaded for treason on Tower Hill. 

Henry’s defence of the seven sacraments is sent to Leo X., who confers on him the 
title of Defender of the Faith. 

1525 Henry attempts to levy money by benevolences for the conquest of France; it is 
refused; an insurrection is raised. 

1527 Henry’s marriage with Catherine of Aragon questioned; and Henry writes a treatisd 

upon the unlawfulness of bis marriage with Catherine. 

1528 Wolsey and Cardinal Campeggio are authorised to determine the divorce. 

May. The sweating sickness breaks out in London. 

1529 June 21. The king and queen both appear before the cardinals; the queen with¬ 

draws, and, refusing again to appear, is pronounced contumacious. 

July 23. Campeggio adjourns the cause. 

Oct. Wolsey has two bills filed against him in the Court of King’s Bench, for ex¬ 
ercising the functions of pope’s legate, and he is deprived of the great seal. 

1530 Nov. 4. He is arrested for high treason; is taken sick at Leicester; dies at Leicester 

Abbey, Nov. 29. 

The marriage of Henry is declared illegal by the universities of Oxford and Cam¬ 
bridge. 

1531 Thomas Cromwell advises Henry to declare himself supreme head of the church. 

1533 Jan. 4 or 25. Henry is married to Anne Boleyn, at Whitehall. 

Cranmer is made Archbishop of Canterbury. 

May 28. Cranmer declares to the clergy the marriage of Henry with Anne Boleyn, 
and confirms the same. 

Sept. 7. Anne is delivered of a girl, the Princess Elizabeth. 

1534 Parliament prohibits every kind of payment or appeal to the pope; confirms Henry’s 

title as supreme head of the church; vests in the king onlv the right of ajipoint- 
ing to all bishoprics ; of deciding in all ecclesiastical causes.” 

_ Fisher, bishop of Rochester, and Sir Thomas More, are committed to the Tower, 

1535 June 14. Interrogatories are administered to Sir Thomas More. 

June 18. Other Catholics are executed for denying the supremacy. 

June 22, Fisher, bishop of Rochester, is beheaded for denying the supremacy. 

July 6. More is also executed for the same. 

1536 Jan. 8. Queen Catherine dies at Ivimbolton. 


CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS 


677 


A.D. 

J )36 May 2. Anne Boleyn is arrested for treason and committed to tlie Tower, found 
guilty, and beheaded, May 19. 

May 20. Henry marries Jane Seymour. 

1537 The Bible is published in English. 

Oct. 12. Queen Jane Seymour is delivered of a son. 

Oct. 24. She dies; the prince is created Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, and 
Earl of Chester; Edward Seymour is created Earl of Hereford. 

Some of the larger monasteries are suppressed and the abbeys are seized by the king. 

1539 May 18. Six questions are proposed concerning the Eucharist and other matters for 

the consideration of parliament; they are adopted and called the Six Articles, or 
the Bloody Statute. 

Dec. Ann of Cleves arrives at Dover; and on Jan. 5, 1540, she is married to Henry. 

1540 The remaining monasteries and other religious houses are suppressed; their lands 

divided amongst courtiers and favourites. 

Cromwell is created Earl of Essex. 

June 10. Cromwell is arrested for treason, and attainted as a traitor and heretic. . 
July 9. Henry is divorced from Ann of Cleves. 

July 28. Cromwell is beheaded on Tower Hill. 

July 31. Dr. Barnes and five others are burnt for heresy. 

Aug. 8. Catherine Howard, whom Henry had manned a few days after his divorce, is 
publicly acknowledged queen. 

1541 Aug. Catherine Howard is accused to the king. 

1542 Feb. 11. Catherine is attainted by parliament, with Lady Rochford, and they are both 

beheaded in the Tower. 

1543 leb. The English parliament restore the Princess Mary to her place in the succes¬ 

sion. 

July. Henry is married to Catherine Parr. 

1544 May 4. An English army land at Leith, which they plunder: the Scotch evacuate 

Edinburgh; the Earl of Hertford attacks the castle; is defeated; burns the towr 
and lays waste the country; he retreats from Leith, burns the shipping, and re 
treats to Berwick. 

1545 Nov. Parliament grants Henry a subsidy and the disposal of all colleges, charities ; 

and hospitals. 

Sept. The Earl of Hertford again marches into Scotland, and burns and destroys the 
towms and villages. 

1547 Jan. 13. The Earl of Surrey is arraigned for treason at Guildhall for using the royal 

arms of Edward the Confessor quartered with his own; is found guilty of an at¬ 
tempt upon the throne, and is beheaded. 

Jan 28. Henry VIII. dies. 

Jan. 31. King Edward VI. enters London and proceeds to the Tower. 

Feb. 1. The Earl of Hertford is appointed sole governor, and is made Duke of 

gom Grs6t 

Somerset is appointed sole governor of the king, and protector of the kingdom. 

June. Lord Seymour, the Duke of Somerset’s brother, marries Queen Catherine Tarr. 
July. The protector marches with an army for the invasion of Scotland. 

Sept. 10. Battle of Pinkey, at Salt Preston; the Scotch army are routed. 

Sept. 17. Leith is set on fire. 

Sept. 29. The English army recross the Tweed. . 

Nov. 4. Parliament passes an act for the punishing of vagabonds and the relief of 
poor and impotent persons. 

Cranmer publishes a catechism in English. 

1548 Dec. The English are driven out of Scotland; the Scotch ravage the English border. 

1549 Feb. 19. The act allowing the marriage of the clergy, and another establishing the 

use of the reformed liturgy, are passed. 

March 26. Lord Admiral Seymour is beheaded on Tower Hill. 

Oct. 14. Articles of impeachment are exhibited against the protector, who is sent to 

the Tower. „ , , _ 

1550 Warwick is made lord high admiral and great master of the household. 




678 


CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS. 


A.D. 

1550 April 10. The Duke of Somerset is again sworn in of the privy council. 

May 2. Joan of Kent is burned in Smith field for heresy. 

1551 Aug. The chief officers of the household of the Princess Mary are committed to the 

Tower. The chancellor and other members of the council confer with her re¬ 
specting the mass, which she refuses to relinquish. 

Oct. 11. Warwick is created Duke of Northumberland. 

Oct. 16. The Duke of Somerset is arrested for conspiracy and treason. 

An indictment is presented and found against him, by the Grand Jury, at Guildhall. 
Dec. 1. The Duke of Somerset is tried in Westminster Hall, is found guilty of felony, 
and, on Jan. 22, 1552, is beheaded on Tower Hill. 

1552 Jan. 23. Parliament meets; acts are passed for the enforcing the use of the books of 

Common Prayer; for amending the law of treason; for the relief of the poor; for 
legalising the marriage of priests, and for other purposes. 

1553 May. Lord Guilford Dudley is married to Lady Jane Grey. 

June 11. The king requires the crown lawyers to draw a hill, entailing the crown on 
Lady Jane Grey. 

July 6. Edward VI. dies at Greenwich. 

July 8. The Lord Mayor of London, and others of the citizens, swear allegiance to 
Lady Jane Grey. 

July 19. The council proceed to Baynard’s Castle, and declare for Mary. 

July 21. Northumberland is arrested for treason, and conveyed to the Tower. 

July 30. The Lady Elizabeth rides through London to meet Mary. 

Aug. 3. Queen Maiy enters London. 

Aug. 18. The Duke of Northumberland, the Earl of Warwick, and the Marquis of 
Northampton are arraigned for treason in Westminster Hall; they are all con¬ 
demned, and Northumberland is beheaded on the 22nd. 

Sept. 14. Cranmer is arrested and sent to the Tower. 

Oct. Gardiner assembles the convocation ; the hook of Common Prayer declared an 
abomination; they recommend the suppression of the reformed English Catechism. 
Nov. 13. Lady Jane Grey, her husband, and Lord Ambrose Dudley, with Cranmer, 
are tried and condemned for treason ; Cranmer is respited, hut detained for heresy. 

1554 Jan. 14. The Chancellor Gardiner announces the queen’s intended marriage with the 

Prince of Spain. 

Sir Thomas Wyatt raises a rebellion in Kent against the Spanish match. 

Feb. 12. Lady Jane Grey and her husband are beheaded. 

March 15. The Princess Elizabeth is arrested, and sent to the Tower. 

April 11. Sir Thomas Wyatt is beheaded. 

April 14. Cranmer, Bidley, and Latimer, are questioned before the commissioners at 
Oxford. 

April 15. Sir Nicholas Throgmorton is tried and acquitted. 

1555 Mary sends an embassy to the pope to confirm the reconciliation of England with 

the church. 

Eeb. 9. Bishop Hooper is burned at Gloucester. 

Oct. 16. Bidley and Latimer are burned at Oxford. 

1556 March 21. Cranmer is burned near Baliol College, Oxford. 

1557 March. King Philip II. of Spain revisits England. 

June 7. Mary declares war against France. 

July 6. Philip departs from England. 

1558 Jan. 1. The Duke of Guise commences the siege of Calais ; it is assaulted and taken 

in a few days. 

April 24. Mary, Queen of Scots, is married to Francis, the eldest son of the King of 
France. 

Nov. 17. Queen Mary dies at St. James’s. 

Queen Elizabeth’s accession is acknowledged by both Houses of Parliament; she is 
proclaimed. 

Nov. 18. Sir William Cecil is appointed Secretary of State. 

1559 Jan 12. The queen proceeds to the Tower before her coronation. 

Jan. 25. She meets the parliament; they restore the first-fruits and tenths to the 


CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS. 


cry 


A.D. 


1559 


1500 


1561 

1562 

1563 


1565 

1566 


1567 


1568 


1569 


1570 

1571 

1572 


1573 

1577 

1578 


crown; they declare the queen supreme head of the church ; the laws of Edward 
VI. relating to religion are restored; the hook of Common Prayer re-established. 
Parliament exhort the queen to marry; she declares her intention to live and die a 

virgin queen. . , . 

May 30. The oath of supremacy is tendered to Bonner; he refuses to take it; ne is 

deprived, as are others who refuse. The Acts of Supremacy and Uniformity aie 
strictly enforced, and the Protestant religion established throughout England. 

July 10. Henry II. of France dies; is succeeded by Francis II., the husband ot 
Mary, queen of Scots. They assume the titles of King and Queen of I ranee, 

England, and Scotland. . e 

Feb. 27. Elizabeth concludes a treaty at Berwick with the Scottish reformers, ioi 
mutual defence, to last during the marriage of Mary with the French king. 

July 7. The treaty of Edinburgh, by which the government of Scotland was vested 

in a committee of noblemen. . . . 

A separate peace is concluded between England and France, recognising Elizabeth s 

right to the crown of England. ^ ... 

Au°\ 1. The Scotch parliament declare that the authority of the Roman church is an 
usurpation; pass a declaration of faith, renouncing the tenets and dogmas of that 

church, and disowning tne authority of the pope. 

Dec. 5. Francis II. of France dies, and is succeeded by Charles IX. 

Aug. 19. Queen Mary arrives at Leith; proceeds to Holyrood. John Knox has a» 

interview with her. . _ , T 

Oct. Elizabeth proposes Lord Robert Dudley as a husband for Queen Mary. 
Parliament meets: addresses the queen as to her marriage; the Duke of Wurtem- 

herg proposes for her hand. 

Sept. The plague rages in London. . 

Sent. 29. Lord Robert Dudley is created Earl of Leicester. 

July 28. Darnley is married to Mary, Queen of Scots, and proclaimed king. 

March 9. Rizzio is murdered by Ruthven and other conspirators. 

June 19. Mary is delivered of a son, who is named James, Ehzabeth being his go 

mother at the christening. 

Feb. 10. Darnley is murdered. 

April 12. Both well is arraigned for the murder of Darnley, and is acquitted. 

May 15. Bothwell is married to the queen. 

July 24. Mary resigns the crown to her son. 

Julv 29. Murray is appointed regent. . _. , „ , 

May 2 Mary escapes from Lochleven Castle; an army is assembled for her defence. 
On the 14th takes place the battle of Langside; the queen’s forces are defeated, 
she flies into England, is conducted to Carlisle, and detained as a prisoner. 

Ulster is vested in the English crown, and is colonised by English. 

Tnlv 16 Marv is removed to Bolton Castle. 

Feb 3 Mary is placed in Tutbury Castle. Duke of Norfolk proposes to marry her. 
Opt 2 Norfolk is arrested, and committed to the Tower. . 

Nov An insurrection breaks out in York, Durham, and Northumberland^ The m- 
N surgents march to Durham, burn the Bible and Common Prayer-book, and celebiate 

mass in the cathedral. 

Tan 22 The Regent Murray is shot at Linlithgow. . 

iprii a. Parliament meets; supplies are granted; it is declared to be high treason to 
claim a right to the succession of the crown during the queen s , T 0 
Jan 16. The Duke of Norfolk is tried for treason, convicted, and beheaded June 2. 
Parliament declares the Queen of Scots incapable of succeeding to the English crown. 
Queen Mary is removed to Sheffield Castle. 

Au 0- 23. The massacre of St. Bartholomew. -p •. ,, 

Au° Elizabeth sends aid to the Huguenots, and attempts the relief of Rochelle. 
Elizabeth, after rejecting the sovereignty of Holland and Zealand, sends aid to the 

Jame? e after 5 the execution of the Regent Morton, assumes the government of 
Scotland. 





680 


CHRONOLOGY OF PRINCIPAL EVENTS. 


A.D. • 

1580 Alenin, now Duke of Anjou, arrives at Greenwich, as a suitor to Queen Elizabeth. 

1581 Anjou returns to the Netherlands, the queen refusing to marry. 

1584 The Throckmorton plot; Francis Throckmorton is executed at Tyburn. 

1585 Elizabeth sends a large army into the Netherlands, under the command of Leicester; 

he is made governor-general of the Low Countries; he attacks Zutphen; is de¬ 
feated. Sir Philip Sidney is killed. 

1580 Babington’s conspiracy to assassinate Elizabeth is discovered; he is taken with 
many of his adherents. Some of them are condemned and executed in Lincoln’s 
Inn Fields, on Sept. 20. 

Elizabeth issues a commission for the trial of Queen Mary; who is removed to 
Fotheringay Castle. 

Oct. 11. Thirty-six English commissioners arrive at the castle; they announce to 
Mary that she is to be tried for being accessory to Babington’s conspiracy, and 
other treasons. 

Oct. 14. The trial commences; is adjourned to the 25th, at the Star Chamber at 
Westminster. 

Oct. 25. Mary is pronounced guilty of treason, and sentenced to death. 

Oct. 29. Parliament assembles. 

Nov. 12. Both houses address the queen, imploring her to order the execution of 
Mary. 

Dec. 6. The order for her execution is proclaimed. 

158? Feb. 1. Elizabeth signs the warrant for her execution. 

Feb. 7. The Earl of Shrewsbury, earl marshal, attended by the Earls of Kent, Cum¬ 
berland, and Derby, arrive at Fotheringay Castle, and read the warrant to Mary. 
Feb. 8. Queen Mary is beheaded in the great hall of the castle. 

Feb. 14. Davison, the secretary, is committed to the Tower; he is fined 10,000Z. 

Sir Robert Carey is sent to make excuses to King James for the execution of Mary. 
April 19. Sir Francis Drake sails into Cadiz roads, and destroys thirty ships. 

He takes or destroys 100 Spanish vessels; captures a large ship in the Tagus; per¬ 
forms other brilliant exploits. 

Nov. Elizabeth summons a great council of war; Sir Walter Raleigh advises that the 
expected invasion of the Spaniards be met at sea; a great camp is formed at 
Tilbury Fort; the queen reviews the troops at Tilbury Fort. 

.588 May 29. The invincible armada, under the Duke of Medina Sidonia, sails from the 
Tagus ; it is dispersed by a tempest off Cape Finisterre. 

July 20. It arrives in Channel. The battle commences, and is continued from the 20th 
to the 26th of July; the Duke of Medina Sidonia sails for Spain; many of his 
ships are wrecked at the Orkneys and the coast of Norway. 

Sept. 4. The Fail of Leicester dies. 

1591 Essex goes to France with a small army to aid Henry IV. 

1597 July. A large fleet is fitted out to attack the coast of Spain; Essex captures three 

Spanish ships; he returns, and is received by the queen with displeasure. 

1598 June. The queen quarrels with Essex; he leaves the court. 

Aug. 4. Lord Burleigh dies. 

1599 March. The Earl of Essex is appointed to command in Ireland; he leaves London 

with a large army; in September he returns to London, and appeal’s at court 
without leave. 

1601 Feb. 8. Essex, the Earls of Southampton and Rutland, and others attempt an insur¬ 
rection in London; they are sent to the Tower. 

Feb. 19. Essex and Southampton are tried and condemned. 

Feb. 25. Essex is executed privately in the Tower. 

1603 March 21. The queen is confined to her bed. 

March 22. She names James VI., of Scotland, as her successor. 

March 24 She dies. 


FINIS. 




* 


INDEX. 






A. 

^.CRE, arrival of the Crusaders at, 273 
Adela, daughter ofWm. the Conqueror, 19x ; 

her sons Stephen and Henry, ib. 

^.gincourt, battle of, 468 ; striking and stir¬ 
ring pictures of, 472 ; dramatised by Shak- 
spere, 475 ; on the slaughter of the French 
prisoners at, 484 

Agriculture of the Anglo-Saxons, 120 
Aids, the levying of, prohibited by Magna 
Cli^rtR 205 

Alban, St., account of, 34 ; persecutions of, 
35 ; his martyrdom, ib. ; sonnet to, 36 
Alfred, biographical notices of, 62 ; his strug¬ 
gles and exalted character, 63 ; his abilities 
and wise policy, 66 ; his wise legislation, 
67 • the first scholar in his dominions, b7 ; 
an ’elegant poet, 68 ; his varied accom¬ 
plishments and qualifications, 69 et seq. 

“ Alfred the Fugitive,” a drama, 72 et seq. 
Alfric, Bp., the best philologist of his age, 69 
Aliens, quarrels with, 580 et seq . 

Alnwick, castle of, 163 

Anglo-Saxon literature, on the study of, 62 
Anwlo-Saxon period of British history, 4^ 
Anglo-Saxons, anarchy among the, 8 b ; op¬ 
pressed by the Danes, 87 ; their slaughter 
of the Danes, ib. ; industry of the, 120 ; 
their fishing, 121; their clothing, 123; 
their bread, ib. ; their wine, 124 ; their 

handicrafts, 126 ; chronological list of their 
kine-s, 128 ; chronological history of the, 
130°; their contests with the Danes, loL, 

I 39 

Anne", sister of the Duke of Cleves, married 
to Henry VIII., 573 

Anne Boleyn, espoused by Henry V Ill., 
572 - trial and execution of, 5/3 ; the ran 
of as related by Hume, 585 ; her letter, 
588 ; Milman’s tragedy of,. 08 9—5 9 8 
Antoninus, makes a truce with the Britons, 

33 

Augustin, sent as a missionary to England, 
57 ; appointed primate of all England, a 8 
Aquitaine, English power in, 380 


Arthur, son of Constance of Bretagne, a 
competitor for the throne of England, 291; 
murdered by his uncle John, 293 ; drama¬ 
tic scenes of, 294 et seq. ; Shakspere’s 
dramatic scenes of, 300; story of, by Holin- 
shed, ib. 

Arthur and Hubert, dramatic scenes of, 294 
et seq. 

Asers, from Asiatic Tartary, 42 
Asser, the monk of St. David s, invited to 
Alfred’s court, 64 

Athelstan, the Anglo-Saxon king, 74; de¬ 
feats the Danes, 75 ; his victorious career, 

ib. 

Atbelwold, Earl, deceives King Edgar, jind 
espouses Elfrida, 85 ; assassinated by King 
Edgar, 86 

B. 

Babington’s conspiracy, 651; followed by 
numerous executions, 652 
Bannockburn, Sir Walter Scott s account of 

the battle of, 368—371 
Barbarians of the north, their invasions, 46, 

47 

Barnet, battle of, 512 

Barons of England, their contentions with 
King John, 309 ; their success, 312 
Barns of Ayr, 358 
Battle, trial by, 252 

Battle Abbey, account of, 116 ; foundation 
of, 117 ; desecration of, 119 
Bayeux tapestry, account of the, 113 ; pre¬ 
served in the hotel of the Prefecture at 
Bayeux, 114; description of the, 114 et 

Beaumont and Fletcher’s tragedy of “ Bon- 
duca,” scene from, 22 . . 

Bede “the Venerable,” biographical notices 
of,’55 ; selections from his “Ecclesiastical 
History,” 56 

Bericus, the Roman, 15 , 

Bertha, queen of Ethelbert, converted to the 

Christian faith, 57 
Bertrand de Guesclin, story of, 404 











682 


INDEX. 


Bible, translation of the, into English, 599 
Bishoprics of England conferred on foreigners, 
100 

Bishops, considered in the double capacity of 
clerks and barons, 236 
“Bloody Statute,” passed in the reign of 
Henry VIII., 573 

Bolingbroke, return of, dramatised, 416 
Bolingbroke and Mowbray, banishment of, 
dramatised, 410 et seq. 

Bonduca, the British queen, her resistance 
to the Romans, 18 ; her speeches, 19, 20 ; 
defeated by Paulinus, 21, 22 ; scene from 
the tragedy of “ Bonduca,” 22 
Bonner, Bp. of London, his sanguinary per¬ 
secutions, 636, 637 
Bosworth Field, battle of, 525 
Bread, among the Anglo-Saxons, 123 
Brigantes, the, 17 

Britain, Caesar’s invasion of, 1 et seq. ; its 
early history, 1 ; first acquaintance of 
the Romans with, 2; minerals of, ib. ; 
tin of, ib. ; the Celtic inhabitants of, 3 ; 
conquered by the Romans, 3 ; invaded by 
Claudius, 15 ; reduced to anarchy and dis¬ 
tress, 42 ; arrival of the Saxons in, 43 ; 
the aboriginal inhabitants expelled, 44; 
record of events from the Anglo-Saxon 
Chronicle, 44, 45 

Britons, primitive history of the, 3 ; their 
habits and customs, 6 ; their dress, ib. ; the 
Caledonians and the Maeatre the greatest 
among the, 30 : Herodian’s description of 
the, 32 

Bruce, Robert, Earl of Carrick, his resistance 
to Edward I., 352 

Brunan-burh, battle of, 75 ; Saxon song on 
the, 75 et seq. 

Buckingham, Edward Stafford, Duke of, his 
trial, dramatised by Shakspere, 556 ; be¬ 
headed, 57 L 

C. 

Cade, John, insurrection of, 506 
Caedmon, the Saxon poet, 60 ; selections 
from, 61 

Caesar’s invasion of Britain, 1 ; his prepara¬ 
tions, 1, 2 ; his landing, 4 ; his depar¬ 
ture, 5 

Calais, siege of, by Edward III., 388 
Caledonia, invaded by Severus, 30 ; manners 
and customs of the inhabitants, 30, 31 
Camulodunum, the capital of Cymbeline, 6 
Cangians, the, 17 

Canute, the Danish king, 88 ; becomes king 
of England, ib. ; his greatness as a man 
and a sovereign, 89 ; a patron of literature 
and poesy, ib. ; his visit to Ely Abbey, 90; 
his letter to his Danish subjects, 91 ; his 
practical reproof to his courtiers, 92 
Caractacus, the British king, captured by 
the Romans, 17 ; his noble speech, 17, 18 
Carausius, put to death, 33 


Carlisle, castle of, 163 
Cartismandua, queen of the Brigantes, 17 
Cassibelan, the British king, 16 
Cassiterides, of Britain, 2 
Castles of the Norman kings, 144 
Catherine Howard, married to Henry VIII., 

573 

Catherine Parr, married to Henry VIII., 

574 

Celts, the great national family of, 3 
Christians, martyrdom of, in Britain, 34, 35 
Chronology of the Anglo-Saxon kiugs, 128 ; 
of English history to the battle of Has¬ 
tings, 129 ; of the principal events from 
the accession of the Conqueror to the 
death of Henry III., 343—348; from the 
accession of Edward III. to the death of 
Elizabeth, 671 

Civilization in France, Guizot’s History of, 
45 

Claudius, his invasion of Britain, 15 ; re¬ 
ceives the surname of Britannicus, 16 
Clergy, their greatness during the middle 
age, 235 

Clifford, Lord, his ferocious revenge, 510 
Cloth of Gold, field of the, 574 
Clothing, among the Anglo-Saxons, 122 
Clovis, of France, 46 
Cogidunus, a British king, 17 
Cornish insurrection, Lord Bacon’s account 
of the, 538 

Cranmer, Abp., rise of, 572 ; martyrdom of, 
638 

Cressy, battle of, by Froissart, 385 
Cromwell, Thomas, Earl of Essex, rise of, 
572 ; his great power, 572, 573 ; his trial 
and execution, 573 ; fall of, as related by 
Hume, 608 

Crusades, Hume’s account of the, 174 ; 
under Richard I., 267 ; great preparations 
for the, 268 ; the fleet for the prosecution 
of the, 269 ; arrival at Acre, 273 ; fearful 
loss of life, 273 

Crusaders, divisions among the, 274 ; their 
departure for Jerusalem, 275, 277 ; op¬ 
posed by Saladin, 276 

Cymbeline, Shakspere’s historical drama of, 
5—15 ; a powerful British king, 6 
Cyprus, conquest of, by Richard I., 272 

D. 

Danegeldt, a tax levied for payment to the 
Danes, 87 

Danes, their ravages in England, 64; the 
most accomplished warriors of the age, 
66 ; their augmented power, 86 ; impose 
the Danegeldt, 870; slaughtered by the 
Anglo-Saxons, their revenge, 87 ; their 
extortions, 87 ; become masters of Eng¬ 
land, 88 ; their power extinguished, ib. 
David, Prince of Wales, death of, 350 
Days of the week, their Saxon origin, 59 
Dermot, King of Leinster, 242 




INDEX. 


683 


Diocletian, persecution of, 33 
Doomsday Book, Thierry’s account of, 141 
Dover, capture of, by the Conqueror, 135 
Dover Castle, defence of, by Southey, 328 
Dramatic scenes, on the introduction of, 5 ; 
from English History suggested, 93 ; 
various examples of, 22, 72, 79, 94, 104, 
150, 168, 182, 203, 229, 294, 321, 330, 
363, 376, 398, 410, 416, 421, 448, 457, 
466, 475, 487, 513, 545, 556, 562, 589, 
664 

Druids, of Britain, account of the, 26; 
Julius Caesar's description of the, 27, 

28 ; religious system of the, 28 ; their 
chief deities, ib. ; their peculiar doctrines, 

29 

E. 

East Anglta one of the kingdoms of the 
Saxon Heptarchy, 49 
Edgar and Elfrida, account of, 83 
Edith, banishment of, 101 
Edmund, the Saxon king, 88 
Edmund de la Pole. Duke of Suffolk, execu¬ 
tion of, 571 

Edric, Duke of Mercia, 87 
Edward, son of Ethelred, called to the 
Saxon throne, 89 
Edward the Confessor, 94 
Edward I., annals of, 349 et seq. ; joins the 
Crusaders in the Holy Land, ib. ; his con¬ 
quest of Wales, 350, 352 ; his attempt to 
conquer Scotland, ib. ; ode on his treat¬ 
ment of the Welsh, 354 ; his death, 352 ; 
chronology of events from the reign of, 671 
Edward II. defeated at Bannockburn, 368— 
371 ; his fall and cruel death, 372 ; drama 
of, by Marlowe, 376 

Edward III., his possessions in France, 380 ; 
the order of descent from which he laid 
claim to the throne of France, 384, 385 ; 
gains the battle of Cressy, 385 ; his siege 
of Calais, 388 ; the Countess of Salis¬ 
bury, 397 ; anecdote of, ib. ; the story 
dramatised, 398 et seq. 

Edward VI., annals of his reign, 623 et seq. ; 
his illness and death, 627 ; sonnet on, by 
Wordsworth, 626 

Edwin, King of Northumbria, converted to 
Christianity, 58 

“Edwin the Fair,” Taylor’s drama of, 16 
et seq. 

Eleanor, daughter of the Count of Provence, 

336 , 

Eld red, Abp., 139; his malediction on the 

Conquest, 140 ; his death, ib. 

Elfrida, beauty of, 85 ; married to Earl 
Athelwold, ib. ; married to King Edgar, 
86 ; murders her step-son, ib. 

Elizabeth, Princess (afterwards Queen), her 
sister Mary’s persecution of, 634 ; reign of, 
639 ; her learning and talents, 640 ; her 
judicious choice of ministers, 04-, hei 


death, 646 ; her resistance to the Spanish 
Armada, 657 ; chronology of the principal 
events from the accession of Edward I. to 
her reign, 671 

Ely Abbey, Canute’s visit to, 90 
England, Saxon rulers of, 88; the discontents 
in, as related by Froissart, 433 
English dominion, decay and srbversion of in 
France, 479 et seq. 

English History, Half Hours of;—the 
Roman period, 1—41 ; Anglo Saxon 
period, 42—134 ; Saxons and Normans— 
from William I. to Henry III., 135—348; 
annals of Edward I., 349 ; a series of 
dramatic scenes from, suggested, 93 ; (see 
Dramatic Scenes) 

English possessions in France, 380 
Essex, one of the kingdoms of the Saxon 
Heptarchy, 48, 49 

Essex, Earl of, account of his fall, 659 ; 

dramatised by Landor, 664 
“Essex and Bacon,” Landor’s drama of, 644 
Ethelbert, the king of Kent, converted to 
Christianity, 55 et seq. 

Etheldred, forced to fly to Normandy,. 87 
Ethelwald, declared a rebel, and killed in 
battle, 74 

Evesham, battle of, 336, 339 ; ballad written 
on, 340 

“ Evil May Day,” historical account of, 579 
Exeter, Duke of, his conspiracy against 
Henry IV., 443 ; his defeat and execution, 
446, 447 

F. 

“Fair Rosamond,” life and death of, 243; 

poem on, 243 et seq. 

Falkirk, battle of, 362 

Feudal System, Guizot’s account of the, 
208—212 et seq. ; its introduction into 
England, 309 

“Field of the Cloth of Gold,” 574 
Fishing, among the Anglo-Saxons, 1 21 
France, English possessions in, 380; the 
order of descent from which Edward HI. 
laid claim to the throne, 384, 3S5 ; the 
decay and subversion of the English 
dominion in, 479 et seq. 

Francis I., his meeting with Henry VIII. on 
the “Field of the Cloth of Gold,” 574 
et seq. 

Franks, detested by the English, 100 ; their 
civil contests, 101 ; fly from the country, 

102 . ’ r „ n 
Frenchmen, their domineering spirit, 5/9; 

quarrels with the, 581 

Froissart, Sir John, how he arrived in 
England, 426 

G. 

Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, 573 
Garter, order of the, its origin, 397; the 
story dramatised, 393 et seq. 









6S4 


INDEX. 


Gaul, Caesar's preparations in, for the inva- j 
sion of Britain, 4 ; condition of during the 
fourth century, 46; invasion of by bar¬ 
barians, 47; destruction of Roman society 
in, 47 

Gauls, manners and customs of the, 6 
Godwin, Earl, 93 ; the wealth and powder of 
England in his hands, 94 ; marries his 
daughter to King Edward, ib. ; drama of, 
94 ct seq. ; banishment of, 99 ; historical 
events connected with, 100 et seq. ; his 
death and character, 104 
Greek fire, its invention and use, 272, 273. 
Gregory “the Great,” biographical notices 
of, 56 

Grey, Lady Jane, proclaimed as Queen of 
England, 627; death of, 632 
Guilford, Lord, execution of, 635 
Guizot’s remarks on the overthrow* of the 
Roman power by barbarian tribes, 45 
Guthrun, the Dane, converted to Christian¬ 
ity, 64 

Guy of Lusignan, the dethroned King of 
Jerusalem, 271 

H. 

Handicrafts among the Anglo-Saxons, 176 
Hankes, martyrdom of, 637 
Harold, the Saxon king, historical notices of, 
104; his vow, ib.’, drama of, 104 et seq.; 
his coronation, 111; defeated at the battle 
of Hastings, 112, 113; is slain, and buried 
at Waltham Abbey, 113; speech of, before 
the battle of Hastings, 119 
Hasting, the Danish general, 64; his ravages 
in England, 65 

Hastings, battle of, 111; Harold defeated at 
the, 112, 113; castle of, 162; speeches of 
Harold and William 1. befoi'e the battle of, 
119, 120 

Hastings, Lord, death of, 520 
Hengist, the Saxon chief, enters Britain, and 
defeats the Piets and Scots, 43; subdues 
the province of Kent, and lays the founda¬ 
tion of the first Saxon kingdom, ib.; his 
victorious career, 45 

Henrv I., surnamed Beau Clerc, 177; his 
accession, ib.; his wife Maud, 178; state 
of the country under, 187; popularly called 
the Lion of Justice, 188; legend respecting, 
189; his children, ib.; union of his daughter 
Matilda with Geoffrey Plantagenet, 191. 
Plenty II., accession of, 215; his contests 
with Thomas a Becket, 221 et seq.; drama 
of the “ King and the Archbishop,” 229 
et seq.; his family troubles, 237, 253; pen¬ 
ance of, 238, 239; his conquest of Ireland, 
239; death of his “ Earn Rosamond,” 243; 
his death, 253; character of, 256 
H enty TIL, annals of, 324 et seq. ; nominated 
to the throne by the Earl of Pembroke, 
336 


Henry IV., the Duke of Exeter’s conspiracy 
against, 443; death of, from Holiuahed, 457; 
dramatised by Sbakspere, 457-465 
Henry V. and the Lord Chief Justice, 465; 
anecdote of, 466; dramatised by Shak- 
spere, 468; gains the battle of Agin court, 
468, 472 ; dramatised by Sbakspere, 475; 
his illustrious character and death, 481 
Henry VI., his early succession, 481; crowned 
at Paris, 482 

Henry VII., character of, by Lord Bacon, 
551 

Henry VIIT., events of his reign, 568 et seq.; 
his children, 574; his visit to France and 
the “Pield of the Cloth of Gold,” 574; his 
meeting with the French king, 575 ; last 
da^s of, as related by Hume, 610; condi¬ 
tion of the people during his reign, 616; the 
causes of his resistance to the Pope, as re¬ 
lated by Sir Walter Scott, 620, 621 
Heptarchy of the Saxons, 48; its different di¬ 
visions and their lounders, 48, 49; proposed 
to substitute the word Octarchy, 50; geo¬ 
graphical divisions of the, ib. 

Hooper, Bishop of Gloucester, martyrdom of, 


Icenians, the, 16 

Innocent, Pope, his contentions with King 
John, 304 

Ireland, conquest of by Henry II., 239 et 
seq. ; historical notices of, 240 ; the inha¬ 
bitants divided into clans, 241 ; more 
addicted to pasturage than agriculture, 
ib. ; the militia of, 242 ; invasion of, and 
subjugation, ib.; conquest of, as related 
by Froissart, 429 

Isaac, sovereign of Rhodes, 270, 271 

J. 

Jaffa, arrival of the Crusaders at, 276 ; 
battle of, 277 

Joan of Arc, the “Maid of Orleans,” her 
first interview with Charles VII., 490 ; 
dramatised by Shakspere, 491 ; brief 
history of, 493 ; relieves Orleans, and ex¬ 
pels the English, 496 ; her victorious 
career, ib. ; crowns the king, 497 ; her 
capture, ib. ; her trial and execution, 499 
et seq. 

Johannes Scotus, 70 

John, King, his contentions with the Papal 
power, 302, 304 ; his abject submission, 
308 ; his contentions with the barons of 
England, 309; signs Magna Charta, 312 ; 
the last days of, 318; death of, 321; 
scenes of, from Shakspere, 321 et seq. 

John and Arthur, the two royal competitors 
for the throne of England, 291 ; the latter 
murdered, 293 ; dramatic scenes of, 294 
et seq. 

Jury, trial by, 251 



INDEX. 


685 


K. 

Katharine, Queen, trial of, 559 
Kent, one of tlie kingdoms of the Saxon 
Heptarchy, 48 

L. 

Latimer, Bishop, martyrdom of, 637 
Laws, on their administration during the 
Norman period, 247 

Llewellyn, prince of Wales, death of, 350 
London, the Conqueror’s march upon, 137 
“Lytell Geste,” ballad of the, 288 

M. 

MiEAT.E, their manners and customs, 30, 31 
Magna Charta, historical account of, 263 ; 
its essential clauses, 263 et seq. ; always 
considered a fundamental law, 265 ; its 
principal provisions, ib. ; signed at Runne- 
mede, 312 

“Maid of Orleans” (see Joan of Arc) 
Manufactures among the Anglo-Saxons, 127 
Margaret, Countess-Dowager of Salisbury, 
executed, 573 

Mary, Queen of England, reign of, 629 ; her 
persecution of the Princess Elizabeth, 634 
Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, her event¬ 
ful career, 647 ; her marriage with the 
Dauphin, 648 ; fate of her husband, Lord 
Darnley, 650 ; her marriage with Both- 
well, Duke of Orkney, ib. ; her flight with 
Both well, ib. ; her abdication, and flight to 
England, ib. ; her imprisonment and exe¬ 
cution, 651 et seq. 

Matilda, daughter of Henry I., married to 
Geoffrey Plantagenet, 191 ; her invasion 
of England, 199 

Maud, wife of Henry I., 178 ; her invasion 
of England, 199 
Maximianus Herculius, 34 
Mercia, one of the kingdoms of the Saxon 
Heptarchy, 49 ; the “ Wars of,” a tragedy, 
50 et seq. 

Medals found in Britain, 2 
Miracles, pretended, 606 

Monasteries, suppression of the, as related by 
Hume, 605 ; their number, and great 
wealth, 607, 608 ; dissolution of, 572, 573 
Money, power of granting, according to 
Magna Charta, 265 
More, Sir Thomas, death of, 600 

N. 

Naval victory, the first one gained by the 
English over the French, 315 
New Forest, the, 165 „ 

“No Normans,” the ancient English cry of, 

194 

Norman army, its march to London, after 
the battle of Hastings, 135—137 ; its 

devastations, ib. 

Norman government, character of the, Zo y 


Norman kings, castles of the, 144 
Norman period, on the administration of the 
laws during the, 247 

Normandy, English power in, 382, 385 ; re¬ 
covered from the English by the French, 
483 

Normans, rapidly absorbed by the conquered 
Saxons, 145 

Northampton, battle of, 509 
Northumbria, one of the kingdoms of the 
Saxon Heptarchy, 49 ; altars and images 
of, overthrown, 59 

O. 

Odin, the leader of an Asiatic army, 42 
Ordeal, trial by, during the Norman period, 

248 

Ordovices, the, 17 

Orleans, siege and capture of, 490 et seq. 
(see Joan of Arc) 

Ostorius, the Roman general, his conquests 
in Britain, 17 

P. 

Pandolf, the Papal legate, 307 ; King John 
does homage to him, 308 
Papal power, contentions of King John with 
the, 302, 304 ; its fulminations, 306 
Parliamentary representation, historical no¬ 
tices of, by Hallam, 333 
Paulinus defeats Boadicea, the British queen, 
21 

Peasants, insurrection of the, temp. Edward 

III., 407 

Pembroke, Earl of, nominates Prince Henry 
to the throne, 336 
People, oppressions of the, 187 
Percies, revolt of the, 447, 454 
“ Perkin Warbeck, ” tragedy of, by the Rev. 
J. White, 545 

Philip Augustus of France, 274 

Philip II. of Spain, his invasion of England, 

656 

Piets defeated by Hengist, 43 
Piers Gaveston, death of, 366 
Plautius, the Roman praetor, his attack on 
Britain, 15 ; his conquests, 16 
Poictiers, William of, his description of the 
Saxons, 146 
Poitiers, battle of, 391 
Popery, sonnet on the revival of, 628 
Princes in the Tower, murder of the, 522 
Protestant martyrs, 635 

R. 

Raymond, prince of Antioch, 271 
Reformation in Scotland, beginning of the, 
as related by Sir Walter Scott, 618 
Rhodes, seizure of, by Richard I., 270 
“ Revolt of the Percies,” from Holinshed, 

447, 454 ; dramatised by Shakspere, 

448, 454 










es6 


INDEX. 


Richard I., the Crusader, Hume's account of, 
266 ; his fleet, 269 ; his dangerous adven¬ 
tures, ib. et seq. ; captures a large 
Saracen ship, 272 ; his arrival at Acre, and 
its capture, 273; departs for Jerusalem, 
275 ; defeats Saladin, 276 ; his heroic 
bravery, ib. ; his captivity in Austria, 
279 ; sums advanced for his ransom, 281 ; 
his liberation, 282 ; his death and cha¬ 
racter, ib. 

Bichard II., the deposition of, 421 ; drama¬ 
tised by Shakspere 421 et seq. ; the 
captivity of, as related by Froissart, 436 ; 
his deposition, 439 

Bichmond, Earl of, his victory at Bosworth 
Field, 525, 526 

Bidley, Bishop of London, martyrdom of, 637 
Robert, the Captive, 179; takes possession 
of Normandy, 180 
Robert, Earl of Gloucester, 193 
Robert Fitz-Walter, chosen by the Barons 
of England as their general, 311 
Ilobin Hood and Sherwood Forest, 2S4 
Rochester Castle, its antiquity and strength, 
160 

Roderic, King of Connaught, 242 
Rogers, Prebendary of St. Paul’s, martyrdom 
of, 636 

Roman civilization, destruction of, 45 
Roman period, 1—41 ; Caesar’s invasion of 
Britain, 1 ; Cymbeline, 5 ; invasion of 
Claudius, 15 ; Bonduca, 18 ; the Druids, 
26 ; Severus, 30 ; Diocletian, 33 ; the last 
Romans, 36 

Roman road, near Silchester, 38 
Romans, their first acquaintance with Bri¬ 
tain, 2 ; their conquest of Britain, 3 ; the 
written monuments of their rule, ib. ; their 
first landing in Britain, 3, 4 ; their depar¬ 
ture from Britain, 5 ; last of the, in Bri¬ 
tain, 36 

“ Roses, White and Red,” their sanguinary 
contests, 509 

Rouen, captured by the French, 483 
Rufus—(see William Rufus) 

Runnemede, the place where Magna Charta 
was signed, 312 

S. 

Sac,®, a nation of Asiatic Scythia, 43 
St. Alban, Abbey of, 137 
St. Albans, battle of, 509 
Saladin, the Saracen commander, 276 ; op¬ 
poses the Crusaders, 276 ; his defeat, ib. 
Saunders, martyrdom of, 637 
Saxons, their arrival in Britain, 42, 43; their 
supposed origin, 42; defeat the Piets and 
Scots, 43; their irruptions into Britain, ib.; 
Saxon kingdom founded by Hengist, 43; 
Heptarchy of the, 48; the Normans rapidly 
absorbed among the, 145; the Conqueror’s 
conciliatory policy towards the, 145 ; 
description of the, 146. (See Anglo- 
Saxons) 


Scotland, Edward I.’s military operations 
against, 350; invaded by Henry VIII., 
574; beginnings of the Reformation in, as 
related by Sir Walter Scott, 618 
Scott, Sir Walter, his story of William 
Wallace, 357; his account of the battle of 
Bannockburn, 368 

Severus, his invasion of Britain, 31; his 
death, 32 

Seymour, Jane, married to Henry VIII., 

573 

Seymour, Lord, charged by his brother with 
high treason, and executed, 625 
Sherwood Forest, Robin Hood’s adventures, 
285 

Ships of war, all galleys during the Norman 
period, 272 

Shrewsbury, battle of, 454 

Silchester, site of, 37; description of, 38, 39; 

antiquities of, 40, 41 
Silures, the, 17 

Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester, 329; 
dramatic scene of, 330; ballad written on, 
340; slain at the battle of Evesham, ib .; 
ballad on, ib. et seq. 

Simnell, Lambert, the impostor, historical 
notices of, 527 

Somerset, Duke of, the Lord Protector of 
England, 623 ; charged with high treason, 
and executed, 626 

Spanish Armada, invasion of the, 656 ; de¬ 
feated and destroyed by the English 
squadron, 658 
Standard, battle of the, 196 
Stephen of Blois, his accession to the throne 
of England, 191 

“ Stephen and Maud,” Keats’ drama of, 202 
et seq. 

Stonehenge, account of, 26 ; the purposes to 
which it was appropriated, 27 ; Julius 
Caesar’s description of, ib. 

Surrey, Henry Howard, Earl of, executed, 

574 

Sussex, one of the kingdoms of the Saxon 
Heptarchy, 48 

Sweyn, King of Denmark, invades England, 
87 ; his death, ib. ; succeeded by his son 
Canute, ib. 

Swithelm, Bishop of Sherburn, sent to India, 
70 

T. 

Talbot, John, and his son, death of, 486 ; 

dramatised by Shakspere, 487 
Taylor, the Rev. —, martyrdom of, 637 
Taylor’s drama of “ Edwin the Fair,” 78 
Tewkesbury, battle of, 512 
Thomas h Becket, rise of, 217 ; biographical 
notices of, 218 et seq. ; his character and 
great abilities, 220 ; history of his fall, 221 
et seq. ; account of his death, 226 ; drama 
of the “ King and the Archbishop,” 229 
et seq. 




INDEX. 


es7 


Tin found in Britain, 2 ; an article of com¬ 
mercial importance, ib. 

Towton, battle of, 513 ; dramatised by 
Shakspere, ib. et seq. 

Trades among the Anglo-Saxons, 127 
Tudors, Government of the, 666 
Tyrrel, Sir James, the murderer of the 
Princes in the Tower, 522 ; dramatised, ib. 
et seq. 

Tyrrel, Walter, and William Rufus, drama¬ 
tised, 168 

U. 

IJverlamacestir, ancient church of, 35 

V. 

Verstegan, the antiquarian writer, 62 
Vespasian in Britain, 16 
Vineyards among the Anglo-Saxons, 125 
"Vortigern, the British Sovereign, 42 ; invites 
. the Saxons to Britain, 43 ; is deposed, ib. 
Yortimer, son of Vortigern, 43 

W. 

Wakefteld, battle of, 510 
Wales, Edward the First’s military opera¬ 
tions against, 350 ; conquest of, and 
anexation to England, 350, 352 ; ode on 
Edward’s treatment of, 354 
Wallace, Sir William, of Scotland, his resist¬ 
ance to Edward I., 351 ; history of, by 
Sir Walter Scott, 357 
“ Wallace and Bruce,” dramatised, 363 
Warbeck, Perkin, the impostor, Lord 
Bacon’s account of, 531, 541 ; condemned 
and executed, 545 ; tragedy of, ib. 


“ Wars of Mercia,” a tragedy, 50 et seq. 

Warwick, John Dudley, Earl of, his opposi¬ 
tion to the Lord Protector, 625 ; his power 
and authority, 626 

Wessex, one of the kingdoms of the Saxon 
Heptarchy, 48 

“White and Red Roses,” historical notices 
of the, 509 

Wilford, Ralph, the impostor, 544 

William I., the Norman, his invasion of Bri¬ 
tain, 111 ; wins the battle of Hastings, 
112, 113; his speech before the battle, 
120 ; Thierry’s account of his march to 
London, 135 ; coronation of, 137 ; his con- 
c liatory policy towards the Saxons, 145 ; 
his death, 147 ; his death and burial dra¬ 
matised, 150 et seq. ; his character, 156 ; 
his wife and children, 157 ; epitaphs and 
panegyrics on, 158 

William, Prince, shipwreck of, 180; the ship¬ 
wreck dramatised, 182 

William Rufus, the son and successor of the 
Conqueror, 157 ; account of his accession, 
158 ; death of, 164 ; inscription on, 168 
character of, 173 

Wine among the Anglo-Saxons, 124 

Wolsey, fall of, dramatised by Shakspere, 
562 ; death of, 572 

Y. 

York and Lancaster, quarrel between the 
houses of, 509 

York, Edward, Duke of, 571 

York, Richard, Duke of, his addre-s to the 
Houses of Parliament, 509 ; is slain, 510 

York, Richard, Duke of, defeated at the bat¬ 
tle of Bosworth Field, 526, 527 








/ 


LONDON: 

SAVILL, EDWARDS AND CO., PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET, 

COYENT GARDEN. 


4<j f ^ 3 3 


















1 










































